


Till Death Do Us Part

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Betrayal, Break Up, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Good Parenting, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Obadiah Is A Shithead, Protective Steve Rogers, Rhodey Didn't Sign Up For This, Tony Being Tony, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, at least sometimes, he's not completely bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 139,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14229585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: It starts as an experiment – Bucky’s brilliant idea – and ends like every young-people-trip-to-Las-Vegas-cliché ever. Come morning, Steve has a horrible hangover and a perfect stranger for a husband. This should be easy to resolve, but neither of them seems willing to let the other go.- Steve and Tony manage to do everything in reverse: Marriage before love, meeting the parents before becoming family themselves. At least they have friends who make them realize how well they fit with each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've got my second state examination next week and instead of sleeping like a normal person, I decided that I'll spend my night writing something happy. And here we are: "Oh no, I married a handsome stranger. What am I ever going to do now?"-AU. Spoiler alert: Don't ever let him go.
> 
> Enjoy!

It starts as an experiment – Bucky’s brilliant idea – and ends like every young-people-trip-to-Las-Vegas-cliché ever. Come morning, Steve has a hard-earned hangover and a perfect stranger for a husband. He is going to _murder_ his friends as soon as he can move without getting nauseous, and even Nat’s secret ninja skills will not stop him this time.

But of course Steve does not know he got married at first. He wakes up with a blissfully empty memory, groaning at the light stabbing his eyes like knives, not realizing there is someone else next to him until he sees the man blinking at him with the lazy grace of someone used to the pounding aftermath of too much alcohol.

This has Steve stopping cold for he cannot imagine a scenario where he goes out with his friends and ends up in bed with a stranger, not even with Bucky pushing glass after glass into his hand and Clint yelling at him to _live a little_. He is sensible, private, and on the wrong side of twenty to suddenly ignore all his principles. Only that he obviously has.

The stranger looks good too, in a way that has Steve usually turning around and going in the other direction. He has spent too much of his life as an asthmatic, skinny kid to fall for someone obviously used to being admired. But here he is, sharing a bed and blanket with someone who smirks as he stretches, gauging Steve’s reaction as he goes.

“Morning, gorgeous,” the stranger says, his eyes scanning every visible part of Steve’s. Apparently he approves of his drunken self’s choice, for he adds, “You up for round two? Or whichever round we’re at?”

Steve knows that he is blushing more than he can feel it. It gets only worse when the stranger laughs at him. He sits up, gathering enough of the blanket around him to cover himself without exposing the other man. He does not have to look to know he is naked, that they both are.

“My, I can’t imagine you’ve been that shy last night, or we wouldn’t be here,” the man announces with a mischievous grin that soon turns into a leer. “From what I remember you were actually quite eager.” Cocking an eyebrow, he says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never went off with a man before. I’m not the right person to coddle you through a moral crisis.”

“No,” Steve cuts in hastily, his cheeks still burning. “You’re not – I’ve been with people.” He doubts this morning can get any more humiliating.

“So you can speak,” the stranger smirks, “not that it would matter. I’m told I talk enough for a dozen people.”

Steve has no difficulties believing that; he does speak like someone used to getting listened to, although something about it seems off, too practiced to be natural.

“Who are you?” Steve blurts out then. “I don’t want to call you the ‘guy who woke up in my bed.’”

“Technically you’re in _my_ bed.” The stranger raises an eyebrow, pointing out a fact but not necessarily meaning to offend.

And it certainly is the truth, Steve concedes as he concentrates on their surroundings. The room has nothing on the shabby motel he has arrived at the day before. It is glamorous almost, grander and more expensive than any of them could afford, in better shape even than his home.

“All right,” Steve nods, wincing when the movement hurts his pounding head, “but your name?”

Strangely, the guy merely looks at him in something like confusion. For a moment panic shoots through Steve. What if he has forgotten who he is; maybe he had stumbled and fallen while drunk and now it is up to Steve to get him back home? Which he would do, embarrassment be damned, although he only remembers snippets of the night before too and has not the first idea where to start.

“Tony,” the guy finally says, still something strange in his behaviour. But there is no hesitation over the name, so Steve sighs in relief. Hopefully no amnesia then.

“Steve,” he says and offers his hand.

It is only when his hand hovers between them that he realizes how ridiculous a thing the motion is. Here they are, two strangers in the same bed somewhere in Las Vegas, utterly naked and with a certain blissful exhaustion weighing down their bones – which implies they might have gone far beyond shaking hands in terms of physical contact. Feeling the blush return, Steve draws back.

The stranger – _Tony_ – chuckles softly as he makes to sit up too, although without widening the distance between them – and without caring for decency, exposing tanned skin that Steve does _not_ stare at.

“You really don’t do this often, do you?”

Although there is nothing in Tony’s tone to suggest that he is ridiculing Steve, he cannot help but shrug defensively. His friends do make a point of telling him regularly that he should try to have fun more often, to stop being so uptight, to let go every once in a while. Even – especially – Bucky, despite knowing what kind of person he is.

“What is it to you if I don’t?”

“I guess I’m honoured then. I’m feeling sore in all the right places.” Another laugh. “Anyway, you mind me getting into the shower first? Although you’re welcome to join me.”

Steve ducks – actually _ducks_ – his head and makes a noncommittal gesture, earning himself another grin.

“Thought so,” Tony says. Then, without ceremony, he gets out of the bed, not a trace of shame because of his nakedness. In fact, he seems to add an extra swing to his hips as he walks towards the bathroom, throwing a glance over his shoulder to see Steve’s reaction and smiles in something like triumph when he finds what he expects.

It is easy to admit that Tony looks very well indeed. He is quite a bit shorter than Steve, but he has muscles that do not seem to be the result of going to the gym. They are subtler than that. Also, he moves with the kind of grace that comes with being comfortable in his own skin. It is certainly no hardship to admire the sight.

Still, as soon as Tony has disappeared into the bathroom, Steve buries his head in his hands for a few seconds, all but cursing under his breath. What did his friends get him into here? He does not do one-night-stands. He certainly does not do _drunken_ one-night-stands. And yet.

As soon as he hears the water turning on next door, Steve all but scrambles out of the bed. He has to get some clothes on, because there is no way he can – or wants to – parade around naked when Tony comes back, is not sure he can stand to be looked at like that. Not when he _does_ feel pleasantly exhausted and Tony has the kind of looks and attitude that has him secretly aroused. No, he will not go there.

Their clothes are scattered around the room like they could not wait to get them off the night before. If Steve concentrates, he can recall snippets, pictures and sensations flashing in time with the thrumming of his headache, that have him blushing again. He also, as embarrassing as the whole thing is, finds he does not actually want to leave quite yet.

The water next door turns off and Steve barely has time to find his briefs and wriggle into them, before Tony comes back, clad only in a towel and still dripping wet.

“Oh, shoot,” he says, grinning wildly, “I’d hoped you were still running around naked. Although this sight isn’t too shabby either.”

Steve does not know what to say – Bucky would, but then Bucky had always been a smooth talker – so he nods awkwardly at the bathroom door.

“You done in there?”

Tony’s grin grows sharper, but his eyes gleam with amusement. “All yours.”

Picking up his bundle of clothes, Steve says nothing as he turns around. Only when he closes the door behind him does he take a deep breath. The motions of getting into the shower and turning on the water are rather automatic, and he is sure he has been standing there for several minutes already, getting drenched, before he returns to the present.

The situation is just so ridiculous – although he is apparently the only one who thinks so. Tony does not seem at all flustered. Neither about waking up next to a stranger, nor about Steve’s shyness. He could be doing such things all the time of course, surely the novelty would run off at one point. Or Tony is the kind of man who can take anything in stride with a shrug and a smile. Well, Steve cannot, and even less so since coming back from the war.

Steve wants to take his time in the shower, hoping maybe that Tony would tire of waiting and leave, making it easier for Steve to sneak out and never look back. At the same time, however, he wants to go back out, talk more to Tony, despite his inclination to make Steve blush with every other sentence. He cannot quite say why. Maybe because Tony does not know him, not like his friends do. He does not know that Steve has scars, that he does not like sleeping anymore because he is terrified of becoming trapped in his nightmares. Tony only knows him as the drunk he picked up in a bar, a stranger who had something to celebrate. Maybe Steve just wants to be that man for a little while longer.

In the end it does not take much time at all to wash off the sweat of the night before and put on his clothes – ridiculously tight jeans and all. Then, taking a last deep breath, as if he could ever brace himself for a situation like this, he emerges from the bathroom.

As unflappable as Tony has appeared since waking up, his expression is a mixture of slight panic and annoyance when Steve finds him sitting at the desk in the main room.

“Shit,” Tony says, running a hand along his jaw, barely disturbing the perfectly cut goatee. He is staring at a sheet of paper like he wishes it to burst into flames before whipping up his head to direct that same glare at Steve.

“Don’t worry,” he says in a tone that has Steve worrying at once, “I’ll have my lawyers take care of this.”

Steve’s first thought is that the other man looks too young to have lawyers of his own, he is certainly not older than Steve himself. Then the rest of the words register in his mind.

“Take care of what?” A hundred scenarios flit through his mind, each worse than the last, and he is almost ready to think himself into a panic – what if something has happened to his friends, what if they were driving drunk and ran someone over, what if – when the other man clicks his tongue impatiently, effectively drawing him back to the present.

“Sorry, darling,” Tony drawls, the tone caught somewhere between ugly and amused, “it’s not you, it’s me.”

Before Steve can ask anything further, the paper is thrust into his hands and he chokes, certain that he is reading this incorrectly.

“We’re married?” It feels like a joke. Something that Bucky would totally pull on him, especially when he has finally needled the promise out of Steve that he could try and get him drunk. Which worked, since they put a lot of energy into it. But this seems a bit too clichéd, even for them.

But there it is, black on white. _Tony Stark and Steve Rogers._

“At least we kept our names,” Steve mutters, causing Tony to laugh. “What? I mean, Steve Stark? Who’d ever want that?”

When he looks up, some emotion flickers over Tony’s face, too quick for him to decipher and soon replaced by a somewhat flat expression that not even the ready grin can quite take away.

“Who’d want that, indeed,” Tony says, sounding so bitter for a moment that Steve feels bad.

“I don’t – it’s a good name, just –”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” at once the smirk is back, “I assume you’re wearing them again? Shame.”

Just like that, Tony has gone from intriguing to infuriating again, making Steve wonder how he ever ended up here.

“What are we going to do about this?” He asks, returning to the topic at hand, and nods at the marriage certificate he is still holding, gingerly like he expects it to explode any second now.

“Before we do anything,” Tony says, snatching the certificate up and throwing it a slightly disgusted glare before he puts it carelessly back on the desk, “I need coffee.” He turns to the door, shrugging on a suit jacket that looks more expensive than all of Steve’s clothes put together. “You coming?”

That has Steve’s brain stopping short. “You want me to come with you?” When he says he does not do one-night-stands, it does not mean that he is not familiar with the general rules for them. And going out for coffee with the stranger he landed in bed with, even if they somehow got married, seems a bit much. Especially if Tony apparently has lawyers on hand who will sort this out for them in no time at all.

“You do drink coffee, yes?”  Tony asks, frowning like he cannot imagine anyone saying no to coffee. “Otherwise this whole marriage thing was an even bigger mistake than I thought.”

Steve should probably just write down his contact information and leave before things can get more complicated than they already are – although he does not actually have any idea how that is possible, only that things can always get worse. His friends have to be waiting for him, probably laughing about sending him off with a stranger but maybe already worrying about him. He should – but he does not.

“All right,” Steve says, wondering whether he is not making another mistake. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Tony walks into the coffee shop across the street like he owns the place, but instead of the annoyance Steve expects to see on the waiters’ faces as soon as his back is turned, they accommodate him easily. He admires their patience. The girl behind the counter is all smiles as she pours them two large cups of coffee, directing them at a corner booth, somewhat out of sight, which Steve is very glad for. It would not do at all to have his friends pass by outside and see him sitting with the stranger he went off with last night. Although, pragmatically speaking, none of them would have any business coming here, since their motel definitely is in another part of town.

They do not talk until they take their seats and even afterwards because Tony has his eyes closed and holds his coffee close to his face, inhaling the scent with a peaceful expression that makes him far more handsome than the self-assuredness from before.

Upon catching himself staring, Steve hastily raises his own cup and takes a sip – only to burn his tongue. Barely keeping himself from spitting the hot liquid back out, he puts the cup down hard, swallows, and proceeds to curse loudly.

Tony, woken from his blissful stupor, laughs. The sound is nice enough to mollify Steve’s embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, wondering how much worse he would make the situation by sticking out his tongue, hoping to cool it down quicker.

With a smirk, Tony furthers his embarrassment by taking a swallow of his own coffee, which has to be as hot as Steve’s, without difficulties.

“What for?” he then asks. “Not being trained enough to drink boiling hot coffee or cursing?” He smirks, altogether looking a bit dangerous. “Don’t worry, I learned both very young.”

That is a curious thing to say to a stranger, Steve thinks but does not know whether to ask about it. In fact, he does not know at all how to go on from here. Conversation with his friends is always easy because they are so familiar with each other, and they are not afraid of silences. Even when saying nothing they are always aware they are not alone, that there is someone there who understands them.

With Tony, however, the silence seems to drag, expanding mercilessly whenever Steve tries to find words and comes up short. Watching Tony is an adventure in itself as stillness appears to be a foreign thing to him. Even sipping the coffee with his eyes closed, the fingers of his unoccupied hand tap a complicated pattern in what does not seem impatience but a hopeful kind of restlessness like they are craving to be moved on purpose, even while the rest of Tony’s body seems quite content where it is. Steve remembers that Tony’s hands are callused, remembers the feeling of them wandering down his skin. He thinks that those calluses suit Tony better than the expensive clothes and rich-guy-image. Although he hides it well, appearing quite natural as he is. He wears the tailored shirt like a second skin, holds himself like he is always being watched.

His gaze wandering higher, Steve finds brown eyes looking right back at him, causing him to flinch and reach for his own cup again if only to have something to do.

As if being caught staring is not bad enough, Tony also grins widely and asks, “Like what you see?” His voice drips with something Steve can only hope is amusement.

The obvious answer would be _yes,_ but there is no way he can just blurt that out, so he looks firmly at the table top – far from where Tony’s hand rests – and decides to change to topic.

“I should probably call my friends. They must be worried.” He wants to take the words back at once. All awkwardness aside, he does not actually want them to separate right now.

Thankfully, Tony does not seem to hold his words against him, for he just keeps joking. “Whether I’ve exhausted you so much that you won’t be able to get out of bed again?”

“No,” Steve mutters, willing his rising blush to go away. “They know I don’t – do that.”

“Oh, but you did last night. And you weren’t too shabby at it, if you can at all remember. Which I very much hope, because I’m worth remembering.”

Steve doubts he could forget this trip even if he tried. Which is not completely negative. They all deserve more happy things to remember, and while one-night-stands are not what he would usually file as a ‘happy memory’, he can hardly complain.

To avoid further embarrassment, Steve foregoes an answer and pulls his phone out of his pocket, only to frown down at it when it refuses to react to anything he does.

“Not again,” he mutters under his breath and curses his bad luck. How is it that he manages to get drunk, get married, get separated from his friends, barely remembering the address of their motel and now end up without a working phone, all in one day?

“Anything the matter?” Tony asks after he drowns the last of his coffee, already waving at the waitress to bring another, who must have watched them closely, because she walks towards them almost immediately.

“No, it’s all right,” Steve says dejectedly, “this stupid phone just likes acting up. I guess I’ll have to ask at the counter whether I can use their phone.”

“Give it here.” Tony holds out his hand, eyeing the phone speculatively, then makes an impatient noise when Steve does not hand it over at once. When he does, Tony immediately leans over it.

“This thing is crap,” he says, ten seconds in, barely disguised contempt in his voice.

Steve’s indignant protest dies in his throat, however, when Tony somehow gets a small screwdriver out of his suit pocket. Who carries around screwdrivers, much less someone dressed like this and with arguably enough money to hire people to do about anything for him? For that is the vibe Tony gives off; a man who has never had to care about money in his life.

“I can probably fix it up for now, but you should seriously think about getting something better. Almost anything will do.”

In the few seconds Steve has taken to reflect about his temporary husband, Tony has managed to take the phone apart, fingers moving swiftly and without hesitation.

“Don’t have the money,” Steve says, not paying much attention to the words as he is busy watching Tony work. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he then offers somewhat helplessly. He barely knows where to find the power button, so he cannot actually tell whether Tony is not making things worse. Although it honestly does not look like it.

Tony, for one, seems to agree with that, since he briefly looks up, fixing Steve with a raised eyebrow and a somewhat puzzled expression, like he is not used to being doubted when it comes to fixing phones. Which is silly, really, because who knows how to fix their own tech these days anymore?

Only a couple minutes later, Tony nods in satisfaction – and open pity – before pushing the phone back over the table towards Steve.

“That should do it for now. But seriously –”

“I told you, no money,” Steve interrupts him, not caring that it is rude. Money is something of a sore subject, although they are not in danger of starving anymore, Bucky and he, like they have been during their first years of living together. He has certainly no interest in discussing it with someone obviously well off. “But thank you,” he adds, remembering his manners.

“Anything for my darling husband.”

Tony grins. Now that he has had something to fiddle with, he seems far more relaxed – or, at least, more genuine. Although Steve does not know whether he would only pretend at being fine. The both of them are in a tricky situation. Had Tony not declared so confidently that he has lawyers who will take care of this marriage business, Steve would definitely not be this calm. In fact, he should probably not allow himself to think about it too much. Bucky has always told him that he is a worrier. But he will be glad to leave the worrying about this to someone else. Even his _husband’s_ illusive lawyers.

For now he is somewhat content to simply sit here with Tony, who, as it appears, has nowhere else to be either, because he turns to his fresh cup of coffee, taking his time instead of gulping down the whole thing within mere minutes.

“Tell me about yourself,” Steve blurts out without a conscious decision to do so, desperate to not fall back into silence.

Again, Tony looks at him strangely. Maybe, Steve thinks, he is just a very private person who does not like to talk about himself. He cannot quite explain this reaction to all of his questions otherwise.

“I’m good with tech,” Tony says, pointing at the phone that lies forgotten between them now, “Got an engineering degree from MIT. I like to tinker.”

“That’s great,” Steve says, honestly impressed. The suits and careful-bordering-on-vain look do give a wrong impression after all. It also answers the questions of why he knows his way around a phone, although Steve would have expected him to work with something grander. “MIT, that’s – wow. You might have noticed I’m not very good with any of that. I guess that’s a given, since I’m studying art. We’re all a little strange but –”

Realizing that he is babbling, Steve bites down on his lip. Which almost causes him to flinch, since it still hurts from getting burned earlier. Tony, thankfully, does not seem to be offended but watches on with barely concealed amusement, although the friendly kind instead of condescending.

“Art, huh? That’s nice too, although I can see where your money problems come in.” Tony says it so nonchalant that Steve does not even feel attacked. “You any good?”

Steve shrugs uncomfortably. “That’s like asking you whether you think yourself good at your tech stuff.”

“You’re an art genius then.” Tony smirks widely, knowing full well that Steve had not meant to say that but unwilling to understate his own talents too. Steve should have guessed that trying for humbleness would not bring him anywhere here.

“I’ve been told I’m not too bad,” he amends, keeping the reproach from his voice. It is good, or so he tells himself, to believe in one’s own abilities.

“Will you show me something you’ve made?” Tony asks, sounding eager all of a sudden but deflates quickly when Steve hesitates. “Never mind,” he waves dismissively, his smile too sharp to be entirely honest, “it’s too private and we don’t know each other. I understand.”

For some inexplicable reason, Steve wants to make sure that expression disappears from Tony’s face and never returns. So, feeling bold all of a sudden, he leans slightly forward, smiling mischievously.

“I could maybe make an exception for my husband.”

At once, Tony’s eyes widen in something like wonder while his lips curve back into something far more honest. It lasts only for a second, though, before the – dare he say happy? - expression is replaced by something smooth and practiced. Steve wonders why Tony feels the need to hide. A little voice in the back of his head nags that he probably should not get attached this easily, since it is only a matter of time until they part ways, never to hear from each other again.

“Are you going to draw me?” Tony asks, effectively destroying the moment. Now that Steve has caught a glimpse of what is going on beneath – or what he thinks is going on – it seems a little bit forced. “I could pose for you.”

“I think you’re burned into my memory as it is,” Steve answers without paying the words much mind. Thus he finds himself blushing a deep red _again_ as Tony bursts out laughing.

“I made that much of an impression? Well, I can’t say I would mind seeing those drawings at all.”

At a loss for something to say, Steve grasps helplessly for his cup, gulping down coffee that is thankfully cooled enough now to not burn him again. Tony seems to take pity on him because he decides to not pursue this line of conversation further.

“Aren’t you a bit old to still be a student?” he asks instead.

Putting down his cup carefully, Steve contemplates what to say, how to end this topic quickly without offending Tony. “I joined the army right out of school. But I loved art before that, so I decided to pursue it upon coming back.”

The smile on Tony’s face becomes a little stiffer at this, making Steve wonder whether he is one of the people with objections against weapons and warfare, but none of the like is tangible in his voice when he speaks.

“Didn’t want to stay a soldier?”

Steve hesitates. He does not usually talk about his reasons for either joining or leaving the army, although he has been told repeatedly by his friends that he needs to drop that attitude if he ever wants to leave all the trauma that entails behind.

“I – a friend of mine was wounded, so I followed him home.”

This is both the easiest and most noncommittal explanation he can manage. It does not entail any of the horror of losing Bucky, of the weeks of sleepless nights and panicked days trying to get him back, of finally finding him bleeding and half-dead and short one arm, of returning to America and feeling so very lost and useless and unable to leave the war behind. No one needs to know how close they have come to giving up, how hard it still is at times, how much work they put into being able to laugh again.

Tony looks like he understands more than he should and, strangely enough, Steve does not feel offended by it like he often does when people meet him with pity or reason.

“My best friend is in the Air Force,” he says simply. That, somehow, is enough.

“So, what do you do with your engineering degree,” Steve asks, making an effort to lighten the mood again. Although he seems to have said the wrong thing for that, because Tony leans slightly away from him, adopting a polite expression.

“I’m working for my father. He wants me to take over the business one day.”

It sounds simple enough but just as vague as how Steve deals with any question about the army. _Careful: open wound_ , it screams, and he has no problems respecting that.

“That’s why you’ve got lawyers at hand?” He thinks they maybe should speak about their accidental marriage at some point, no matter that it is strangely pleasing to just sit and talk with Tony.

And Tony latches onto it like a drowning man. “Yes,” he says curtly, “and I should probably talk to them now so we can have this figured out quickly.”

With a last longing look at his empty cup, Tony stands and fishes out his wallet, producing more than enough money to cover both their drinks and the tip. Then he reaches out for Steve’s phone, quickly tapping away. When he puts it back, his expression is completely neutral.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got news.”

Before Steve can figure out what just happened, he is alone at their table, Tony already vanished from view. It feels inexplicably lonely, although Steve shakes his head as soon as he thinks that. There is no reason for that. They are practically strangers and time naturally does not stop just because Steve was rather unexpectedly enjoying himself drinking coffee with the guy he had had sex with the night before.

Drinking the last of his coffee, Steve picks up his phone to finally call Bucky and yell at him for not only getting him drunk but letting him leave with a stranger too. His contacts are still open and there he is. _Tony_. Nothing else.

Still, Steve feels unreasonably relieved that he has that at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I passed my exam. (No official results yet, but I passed!) Which means I've now got two weeks of freedom - even though I don't know what that is anymore and what to do with it.  
> Anyway, thank you for the kudos and comments! Now enjoy!

When Steve gets back to their motel, bearing lots of fatty food Bucky ordered him to bring, his friends are waiting for him in one of their small rooms. Compared to Tony’s this seems all the more cramped, but Steve feels immediately more at home with his wayward family there to greet him. That is, of course, only until they start asking questions. Embarrassing, intrusive questions. Which is nothing less than he has feared, but he wishes they would give him a break nonetheless.

“So you got married?” Natasha asks, getting into interrogation mood at once; her face expressionless and her hands very obviously in sight – an open warning that she will get her answers, one way or another. They have all been at the wrong end of those threats, but that will not stop Steve from being as uncooperative and vague as possible.

“Accidentally,” he says, pushing a carton of ice cream towards her in hopes to distract her – only to deflate when she pulls it close, her eyes never breaking away from him.

“Way to go, man,” Clint cheers around the bite of doughnut in his mouth. He too takes Steve’s food without accepting it as the bribe it is. Steve cannot expect any help from Bucky either, who barely manages to stay in his seat, so hard is he laughing. Horrible people, the lot of them.

“But he’s got lawyers to sort it out,” he adds, realizing too late that this raises several more questions.

“Lawyers?” Clint whistles approvingly. “So you don’t only have a one-night-stand, but also marry some well-off guy. We are so proud of you.”

“It’s not like that. They’re his dad’s. He’s some kind of engineer.” They do not need to know that Tony _is_ well off, that he carries himself with the air of someone who has never had to starve – other than all of them.

There is no reason really to be secretive. Years from now this will be the kind of story they tell their children, laughing about how young they have been, how foolish. Now, however, Steve feels like Tony is to be cherished. Like talking about him will only take more of the already little time they have together.

“You didn’t have to leave him so soon.” While Nat sounds utterly innocent, he sees the predatorily glint in her eyes easily. “We’d have entertained ourselves.”

“Nonsense. He had work to do,” Steve says, trying for nonchalance but falling somewhat short. He is not quite sure why he does not say that it was Tony who left so abruptly; does not know why that has him feeling abandoned almost. They are strangers, sex and marriage certificate or not. They have their own lives to return to, no matter how briefly they touched.

“Well, when are you meeting him again?”

“Never,” Steve exclaims immediately, then hastily softens his tone although he knows he has already given away too much. “Why would we?” He cannot help sounding defensive. But what kind of idiot is he that he wants to see his one-night-stand again? Rusty as he is, he cannot prove that ignorant of how these things work. It is not as if Tony would even want to see him.

“While we’d all be in favour of you banging your mystery man again,” Bucky says, still slightly out of breath but at least not laughing his head off anymore, “I’m sure Nat meant when you’re taking care of the divorce.”

Blood rushes into Steve’s cheeks – he really has to do something about that. It is quite unhelpful to blush any time someone is teasing him.

“He will call me,” he mutters, avoiding their eyes when his friends start cheering.

“You exchanged numbers then? Good.”

Nat looks at Steve in a way that has him immediately checking whether he is still in possession of his phone, vowing he will not let it out of his sight until they are back home and everyone has stopped talking about his ill-advised adventure. He has no illusions, of course, that she will not get exactly what she wants no matter what he does, but at least it will not feel like he has given up without a fight.

“Tell us when,” Bucky chimes in, “you need to introduce us.”

“I will definitely do no such thing,” Steve refuses with great emphasis, already planning to write a text to Tony later to warn him off coming anywhere near their motel and his friends. No one deserves to have that thrown at them.

* * *

Alas, Tony ignores all his warnings and tells Steve to meet him downstairs in their motel. Steve tries to slip out unnoticed by his friends and fails horribly, not even making it halfway to the door before Clint makes some choice comments about their ‘lover boy sneaking out’. He proceeds to tell them he needs a shower and change of clothes, but cannot miss how they look at each other knowingly when he flees. So he has to make this quick if he wants to spare Tony the torture of being subjected to his friends, no matter that he had hoped of spending some time with him.

As it is, he sits impatiently in one of the worn-down chairs in the sitting area downstairs, eyes jumping between the entrance and the stairwell leading to the rooms, although he forgets all about his friends when Tony comes in.

The short man looks very much out of place in a shabby room like this. He is wearing a different suit now that fits him just as well and sunglasses that he takes off when he notices Steve. Eyes are following him but he pays them no mind, his step never once faltering as he walks towards Steve like there is nowhere else he wants to be.

Steve has been often accused of being a romantic, which he blames on studying art. In truth, he has been one for much longer, courtesy of his mother who taught him to see the world differently when he was young and sick and angry at everything. And now he cannot stop.

So, for a moment, Steve imagines that their story is true. That he, the poor artist, is married to this star of a man, dazzling and smart and ready to give him the world. The worst thing is, it does not even feel wrong. Not the money, Steve could do without that, always has – but Tony. The way he smiles when their eyes meet and how he looks at nothing but Steve.

At the same time, he knows the illusion will shatter the very moment Tony opens his mouth. The man seems incapable of seriousness and Steve cannot imagine getting used to hearing inappropriate jokes at all times.

He rises when Tony comes closer, readying himself, and then Tony simply smiles and says, “Steve.”

That is when he realizes that he has a problem.

“Tony,” he greets, the name rolling easy off his lips.

Not quite knowing how to proceed, Steve stands helplessly for a moment, and Tony seems content just watching him. It is only when he drops his eyes and sees that Tony has brought what seems like paperwork with him that Steve remembers they are meeting for a specific reason. And one that has nothing to do with his stupid daydreams.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Steve asks, sneaking a glance at the door, half expecting his friends to crouch there, eavesdropping.

To his disappointment, Tony just shakes his head. “I actually don’t have much time, and here’s as good a place as any.”

Barely keeping himself from wincing at the resoluteness with which Tony says the words, Steve turns around abruptly, gesturing at the small table. What was he thinking? Of course they are not meeting for pleasure. Of course Tony has better things to do. He is sure _Don’t get attached_ is not even one of the rules for one-night-stands, because no one but him is actually stupid enough to do it.

When they are both seated, Steve is sure that he has his expression under control again. Only that might just be wishful thinking because Tony takes one look at him and frowns.

“Everything okay?” he asks. It even sounds like he cares.

“Yes,” Steve says curtly, then inclines his head apologetically. “My friends have just been teasing me mercilessly.”

“Chin up then,” Tony says cheerfully, “they’re just jealous.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve answers, “They haven’t even seen you.” To be sure, he glances at the stairwell again, which is still empty. Although he is getting paranoid enough that he thinks he sees a flash of red hair. But while he is sure that Natasha could sit there for hours, watching them, Bucky would not have the patience if he could just as well come over and embarrass Steve directly.

“I meant that you got laid,” Tony clarifies, “but I’ll definitely take it as a compliment that you think they would be jealous of you getting me specifically.”

“Well,” Steve shrugs, aiming for casual, “you said it yourself, you’re a treat.”

Tony in turn, grins like a shark, although something in his eyes goes soft. “True that. And don’t you forget it.”

Before Steve can answer, anything to keep the conversation flowing and maybe make Tony forget that he has somewhere else to be, Tony puts the stack of papers on the table between them.

“So, it’s almost fixed,” he says, tone business-like all of a sudden, “but I need you and all your friends to sign this.” He avoids Steve’s eyes and his fingers itch towards the sunglasses sticking out of his pockets like he wants nothing more than to hide behind them.

Steve tucks that information away for later but decides to take care of the matter at hand first. “What is it?” he asks, not reaching out but wanting to hear it from Tony himself.

“NDAs.”

“Non-disclosure?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “What would we need that for?”

Maybe it is a rich people thing. Or maybe there is a whole section of news dedicated solely to ill-advised marriages that he has naturally never heard about but that Tony perhaps is an avid follower of without wanting to see his own name displayed there.

“I can make this go away,” Tony says, sounding not quite impatient but somehow still displeased. “But I can’t have you run off and blab to the first reporter you see.”

“Why would I want to talk to the press? It’s not like I have anything interesting to tell. Another pair of idiots getting married drunk, nobody wants to know that.” Steve is increasingly confused, and Tony does not help at all, looking at him with pity and something unreadable, almost like wonder.

“You have really no idea, have you?”

Steve thinks he might be missing a major point here, but before he can ask Tony’s phone starts ringing. When the short man pulls it out his exasperation gives way to a face drained of all blood as he stares at the caller ID.

“Give me a minute,” he tells Steve, already turning away.

None of this makes a lot of sense, Steve thinks, as he fingers the NDAs sitting so innocently in front of him. He should maybe worry more – because who _is_ this guy? – but he finds himself watching Tony as he walks up and down the threadbare carpet, talking urgently but too quiet for him to hear. There is a sort of well-practiced defeat stitched into the lines of Tony’s shoulders, even though his eyes still shine with defiance.

Steve could not tell how many minutes pass before Tony ends the phone call and returns to him, posture stiff and something manic to the way he jerks his head at the forms.

“I still need those signatures, but how about we don’t divorce just yet? Have you ever been to New York?”

They stare at each other, one waiting, the other completely taken off-guard. “What?” Steve asks, sure he has somehow missed another important piece of information.

“Listen,” Tony says, tone impatient but reasonable, like he is used to situations like this, “I’ll compensate you of course, but do you think you could pretend to actually be my husband for a while? It’ll be far from perfect cause you don’t have the training, but we can always use this as a reason for breaking up later.” Rolling his eyes, he continues, his voice sounding like he is quoting some gossip article, “You couldn’t stand the pressure, our love was not enough to tide us over that, we’ll part but promise to stay friends, and tadaa, you can go back to anonymity. Or something like it. They’ll lose interest soon, once they realize we’re done and you won’t give anything up.”

With his mind coming to a full stop, Steve can only lean back, utterly helpless. “What?” he repeats, staring at Tony who has somehow turned into a completely different person since coming off the phone, scheming and rambling and making even less sense than before.

Before Tony can explain any of that, however, Bucky and Natasha all but ambush them. Bucky throws an arm over Steve’s shoulder while Nat inserts herself expertly between Tony and him, effectively blocking his sight of the other man.

“Steve,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument, “I need you to come with me. Clint has eaten something rather suspicious and, added to the alcohol, he really doesn’t look good.”

They are up to something. Steve does not have to feel Bucky’s silent laughter next to him to know that. But Natasha glares and Clint has done countless stupid things, so it is not improbable that something actually has happened and they just decided to seize the opportunity.

“The first aid kit is in my bag.” He tries to dissuade them from whatever they are planning.

“Exactly.” Nat raises a single eyebrow and he knows he has lost.

“Don’t be difficult,” Bucky adds cheerfully, squeezing his shoulder, “You like that we need you. Everyone knows you’re practically our mother.” With that he pulls Steve up from his seat and turns him in the direction of the exit, just shy of pushing him out.

“Tony,” Steve says, standing his ground for a moment longer, “I’m sorry, can we meet up again later? How long are you still in Vegas?”

Judging on the smirk, Tony does not buy his friends’ story either, but he seems amused more than put out and waves nonchalantly. “Take your time.”

Steve is reluctant to go, and for some reason he wants Tony to know that, even though Nat has already started walking off and snatched up his sleeve to drag him after her. “I really didn’t want to –”

“Go,” Tony cuts him off gently. “I wouldn’t want to be kept waiting while puking my guts out. Just call me when you’ve thought about what we talked about.”

He chuckles quietly as he watches the two start a heated argument the moment they are out of earshot, then cocks his head to the side when he finds Bucky still standing there, eyeing him speculatively. Neither of them speaks for a moment, trying to get a feel for the situation, but Tony has never been good with silences, so he picks up the forgotten NDAs and waves them at Bucky.

“Well, I guess I can hand over these personally then,” Tony says casually as if he finds himself in this kind of situation regularly.

Bucky lets himself fall into Steve’s abandoned seat and takes the papers with his metal arm, taking notice of the slight widening of Tony’s eyes, and, after a satisfied nod, holds out his hand. “Bucky,” he introduces himself.

“Tony,” he offers simply as they shake hands. “Is this the part where you interrogate or threaten me?” He grins, appearing slightly too excited at the prospect. That only makes him more likeable in Bucky’s opinion, although the final vote on that is not yet made. Not when he has his duties as Steve’s best friend to fulfil.

“Natasha would have,” Bucky shrugs, and it is not even a complete lie, “but we thought Steve might be sad if she breaks you.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Tony looks at the exit as if he expects Natasha to reappear any second to make good on that almost-promise. “Although Steve might have inherited a bit, if you’d managed to get rid of me quietly.”

This startles a laugh out of Bucky who, contrary to Steve, does know who he is sharing a table with and which image the press paints of the Stark heir, and is now surprised that the man has humour on top of being weirdly approachable.

“So you _are_ Tony Stark?” Bucky asks and gets surprised by Tony clutching his chest dramatically.

“Thank God,” he sighs, not quite able to hide his grin. “I’ve thought I’ve landed myself in an alternate dimension where no one knows who I am.”

“Imagine that,” Bucky drawls, earning himself genuine laughter. Who knew billionaires were so easy to talk to.

“Dreadful prospect,” Tony says, mock-shivering. “It’s only him then?”

“He’s something else,” Bucky admits, having long ago given up to try and understand Steve Rogers. Then an evil grin grows on his face, “Oh, this will serve as amusement for years.”

“You cannot tell anyone,” Tony points out, not quite reprimanding but firm. This has already the potential to be a PR disaster his father will never let him forget about.

“No,” Bucky says dismissively, not caring for the NDAs one way or another. “But I will tease Stevie mercilessly about this. The one time I get him drunk, he does not only end up married but with someone this notorious too.”

“Stevie, hm?” Not bothering to put much effort into hiding his relief, Tony’s posture relaxes considerably, although it is only now that Bucky notices that he has been tense before.

In fact, he finds himself understanding why Steve was so quick to defend the stranger he married the night before. Stark is surprisingly likeable. Grinning, he picks up one of the NDAs.

“I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Stark,” Bucky signs the form with a flourish, mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Tony, please,” he reminds him, “and I dare say my business with you might not yet be concluded.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky leans forward, maybe too eager, but this situation is too golden to try his hand at polite restraint.

“How good is Stevie at lying?”

* * *

Later that night, when Natasha takes care of a thoroughly knocked-out Clint, Bucky corners Steve in their room, not even bothering to pretend that he has not wanted to talk about this the whole day.

“Some kind of engineer, Steve?” he asks, exasperation clouding his tone as he flops down on the bed. “Some kind?”

The question brings Steve up short. This day seemingly everyone is talking right over his head. “That’s what he said?”

“He is Tony _Stark_ ,” Bucky says like that is supposed to mean something to Steve. And the way his voice contains a surprising amount of awe for Bucky, Steve supposes it should.

“Well,” he shrugs, wondering whether Nat’s pointed glares earlier mean that she knows what is happening too, “that’s what it says on the marriage certificate.”

Sitting down in one of the ratty armchairs, Steve pulls off his shoes, unreasonably tired. Although perhaps not that unreasonable. He did not get much sleep the night before.

Bucky, meanwhile, has rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his arms, staring intensely at Steve as he says, “Heir of Stark Industries.”

At last, Steve recognizes the name. Although he still thinks the amount of exasperation Bucky is showing is rather uncalled for. So what if Tony is slightly richer than Steve has thought and is in line of inheriting one of the biggest tech companies of their time? The knowledge could be intimidating, true, and Steve surely would not have gone to bed with Tony had he known beforehand, but he had not known and he did sleep with him, so the point is rather moot now.

“You know I don’t follow the news,” he says, slightly put out, and leans back in the chair.

“This is not about his tabloid-worthy character,” Bucky exclaims, only confusing Steve more. What do tabloids have to do with all this now? “You’ve held Stark weapons in your hands every day for years.”

“And they worked well.” Shrugging carelessly, Steve wishes Bucky would just drop it so they could go to bed and sleep for twelve hours straight – or at least to leave him to ponder the conundrum that is Tony on his own. “Doesn’t mean I need to know the face behind them. Or the son of the face behind them.”

In fact, Steve is now even more glad that he has had no idea who Tony is. Knowing that his father is responsible for most of their soldiers’ gear could have only let to conversations Steve would not have wanted to have. And, remembering Tony’s reaction to hearing Steve was in the army, suggests that this is a topic he does not like much either.

“My arm is a Stark prototype too.”

Bucky raises the arm in the air as if Steve does not know that, as if he cannot remember the shock of reading Bucky’s acceptance letter into the trial program. For the longest time, neither of them dared to hope that it would work out even through the countless of prepping sessions, even when Bucky had been cleared and scheduled for surgery. Steve still thinks it was one of the hardest things he has ever done, letting go of Bucky’s one remaining hand in front of the operating theatre, unable to stop picturing the last time they had been in a situation like this. It was different, of course. They were there by choice, Bucky was healthy instead of half-dead and bleeding out. Still, Steve had waited for hours, utterly convinced that this could only end in heartbreak.

But it had worked. _Is_ still working. The arm is a thing of beauty. Sometimes he thinks it is still too good to be true.

“I know,” eyeing the arm with the same old gratefulness. “But I doubt that Tony built it himself so I’m not sure what’s your point here.”

“You’re hopeless,” Bucky groans, hiding his face in the duvet. “And you must be really good in bed that he kept you nonetheless.”

“Bucky!” Steve yells, wide awake again. Picking up one of his shoes, he throws it at his friend. Who dodges it easily, because they are practiced at this game. Sighing in disappointment, Steve adds, “Also, he didn’t keep me.”

“Sure sounds like he’s planning to,” Bucky answers immediately, expecting the second shoe coming for him before the last word has even left his mouth. He swoops both of them off the bed with a lazy move that leaves him sprawled across the width of the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Innocence does not suit Bucky, but he just shakes his head when Steve glares at him. “Only that you should take some time and read up on your illustrious husband.”

“Why?” Steve does not care for gossip, never has, and he knows that the press is seldom kind. He has no desire to find out what the world is saying about Tony, not when there are so many things Steve wants to ask him himself. “He says the divorce is almost taken care of.”

He thinks he does not too bad a job of sounding like he does not care that his short acquaintance with Tony will soon be over, but Bucky throws a glance at him that tells him that he is, as usual, easy to read. Thankfully though, Bucky does not comment on it.

“But he did tell you he wants to push that off for a while.”

“Yes,” Steve shrugs, “well, kind of. I didn’t really get what he meant by that or why he would want to in the first place.” Since they were so rudely interrupted by his friends. And since they have not left him alone for a single minute since then, he has not even had the time to mull their conversation over to try and make sense of it. “Wait, what do you know about that?”

“We had a little chat,” Bucky says rather slyly, avoiding Steve’s eyes as he yawns in an exaggerated manner.

“Oh no,” Steve knows exactly what Bucky is doing and he is having none of it, “you don’t get to deflect.”

“Honestly, just look him up, think whether you want him out of your life immediately and then call him.”

If only Steve would understand what they are all talking about. Bucky tries to seize Steve’s momentary distraction and gets up from the bed, walking hurriedly to the bathroom, likely hoping to cut their conversation off.

“Tell me what you mean by that,” Steve demands, stopping him just as he has almost managed to leave.

“For the love of – Stevie,” Bucky exclaims, pulling the bathroom door open, hoping Steve will have either fallen asleep or caught up with what is happening by the time he is done showering. “Just do it.”

* * *

The next morning, Natasha graciously lends him her tablet and Steve lets his friends roam Las Vegas without him – even though that can only end in disaster, without him being there to do damage control – while he does his homework and researches Tony. First, it feels like betrayal, looking up things that Tony might not be comfortable with him knowing. But soon that changes into anger at the blatant disrespect the press has for people these days, and for Tony in particular.

Steve recognizes the smirk in so many of the pictures and some of the quotes sound not at all farfetched but exactly like something Tony would say, but there is so much missing too. Where, he wonders, are the gentle smiles, the absent look of concentration when tinkering, the gleam in his eyes when talking about something he loves?

It is true that Steve does not know Tony Stark. He has been in bed with Tony and spent not quite a whole day with him, but already he feels he has seen more of him than any of those sharks ever will.

He is not quite sure what Bucky wants him to see. If he thought Steve should stay far away from Tony, he surely would have said so. They are not shy about things like that, having been through so much together. He probably just wants Steve to get into this as informed as he can – _if_ there is anything to get into, which Steve still does not think is true. And if anything, reading all these articles about a ‘debauched tech prodigy’ and a ‘billionaire without shame’, Steve longs all the more to get to know Tony, the _real_ Tony. The one he saw glimpses of and wants to drag to light, maybe capture him on canvas so other can see what he does.

Clucking his tongue, Steve turns off the tablet. Where are these thoughts coming from? He is nothing to Tony. And yet.

Without conscious decision, he pulls out his phone – still running better than ever since Tony did his magic – and sends Tony a text, asking for a meeting. He would like nothing more than to call, to hear the other man’s voice, but he does not want to impose, having stolen so much of Tony’s time already. Before he has a chance to put down the phone again, however, he already has an answer. Which should not have him grinning like an idiot. This is business, he reminds himself, nothing more, even if it might feel like it.

Still – it seems like he has got a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank everyone for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. (And also for wishing me well with the exam. Still no official results, but at least I've stopped waking up at night, thinking about what I still have to study ;-) )  
> Enjoy!

They do not let him go alone. As soon as they hear about his coffee date, his friends hound him about how _they_ are looking forward to it. It takes a surprisingly big amount of Steve’s patented _glare of disapproval_ and his exasperated agreement to letting Bucky tag along – on the condition that he stays in the background at all times – to have at least Clint and Natasha backing off. The whole endeavour is already bound to be a disaster, even without his friends refusing to leave him to his own business.

This is why, an hour before their meeting, Steve walks down Las Vegas’ streets with a put out scowl, Bucky next to him, grinning like a madman and humming under his breath, doing everything that Steve cannot forget his presence.

“It will be okay,” Bucky had laughed when they left the motel, “Tony will love to see me again.”

Which is something Steve does not need to be reminded off – that Bucky and Tony have met and, more so, talked about the mysterious business Tony wants to conduct with Steve, and which Bucky has all but volunteered him for already. It might be true that Bucky and he have been inseparable since childhood and that he usually feels much safer with his best friend at his side, but he sometimes wishes he would be left to his own devices. Well, the damage here is already done.

When they reach the small café Tony proposed as a meeting place, Steve stops before going in, summoning all the sternness he can muster before turning to Bucky.

“You’ll stay back,” he orders in a tone leaving no room for compromise, “you won’t make a ruckus, you won’t interrupt, and you won’t eavesdrop. Understood?”

“You,” Bucky says cheerfully, poking one of his metal fingers in Steve’s chest, “are no fun anymore.”

“I’ve never been your kind of fun,” Steve smiles, voice softening.

“I wouldn’t say that. We at least used to get beaten up together,” Bucky laughs, “never a boring day with you. But everyone’s running away now when they see your muscles and disappointed puppy face.”

Shaking his head, Steve does not answer that he does not really miss those days. They had fun, yes, but he had also never been not hurting, be that from bruises or any of the several ailments he has thankfully grown out of.

“I mean it, Bucky. Just let me have this.” This is more than he wanted to say, but it has Bucky growing serious.

“I promise,” he pats Steve’s shoulder and adds, grinning, “now go get him.”

Opening the door, Steve rolls his eyes but takes care to clear all trace of it from his face before he steps into the café, looking for Tony. It is not hard to find him, almost as if Steve’s gaze is magically pulled to him – which is a thought he mentally scolds himself for immediately. Tony just sits in clear view of the entrance, no magic involved, and raises his hand to wave at Steve the moment he notices him.

It could be Steve’s imagination, but a frown flickers over Tony’s face when he sees Bucky entering behind him. It is quickly replaced by a wide smile, however, when Steve unceremoniously pushes Bucky into the first free booth on his way over, making it very clear that he has no intention of bringing him with him.

Ignoring Bucky’s mock-angry muttering in his back, Steve all but hurries over to Tony, who gets to his feet to greet him.

“I’ve taken the liberty to order you a coffee too,” Tony starts talking as soon as Steve is in earshot, “but feel free to get something else. I don’t mind drinking two cups.”

“Or five,” Steve answers simply, teasingly, wondering what the right protocol is for meetings like this. Do they shake hands, hug? A kiss on the cheek?

Tony takes that decision from him by reaching out to clasp his shoulder, then trails deeper and squeezes Steve’s biceps.

“I’m sure that’s inappropriate,” Tony says, sounding not at all apologetic, “but I needed to make sure my brain did not just make these up.” With one last admiring glance at Steve’s muscles, Tony draws back and turns to his seat, waiting for Steve to take his before sitting down himself.

“I can assure you, no one was more surprised than I when I started bulking up,” Steve jokes, remembering full well how much time it took to adjust to his new proportions and people’s reactions to it. “I was a very scrawny kid.”

“I always hoped to grow more. Pepper says that’s why I pushed my ego to become this big.” Tony winks, clearly fond of that Pepper person. “To compensate.”

“Who is Pepper?” Steve asks, surprised that they do not delve right into business but desperate to keep it that way.

“My other best friend,” Tony answers with a happy smile before it turns wry. “And my PA. She still hasn’t given up on straightening me out. She already is the only one who can make me work when I don’t want to.”

“PA?” That single word has reality crashing down on Steve, reminding him that Tony is not just some regular guy he has met in a bar but someone with better places to be. Their time is already running out. “So, you’re Tony Stark,” Steve says, somewhat helplessly, “some millionaire’s son, certified genius, and responsible for everyone’s favourite gadgets as well as a majority of the army’s weapons and defence systems.”

Just like that, Tony changes right in front of him: his smile dims even as he shows more teeth, he begins to slouch in an effortlessly elegant way even while his muscles become tenser. Steve does not know what he hates more, that the Tony he likes can disappear so quickly, or that it is his fault that he has.

“You sound like you have that straight from my Wikipedia page,” Tony drawls, not unfriendly but strangely unapproachable.

Steve grimaces ruefully. “And you have a Wikipedia page too, of course.”

It must be painfully obvious that Steve feels miserable, because Tony perks up a little, not quite back to being relaxed but not so much on guard either.

“It’s mostly lies on there,” Tony says offhandedly, like everybody has whole sections of the internet dedicated to them. “I let JARVIS go wild with it.”

“JARVIS?” Steve asks, wondering if he even has the right, but it was certainly the right thing to do, because now Tony smiles in earnest – and rather proud of himself too.

“My AI. Or,” he lowers his voice, leaning closer until Steve can see the mischief glinting in his brown eyes, “if we’re being informal here, my very cocky child who alternates between being immeasurably helpful and a real pain in the ass.”

“An AI.” Steve trails off, apparently at a loss for what to say. In the background, Bucky, who is watching them with a smirk on his face, gives Tony thumbs up. Those two really have a healthy friendship going right there. Because he can naturally see that Steve is out of his depth here, and what else can he do but approve? That is practically his job as Steve’s best friend.

“But if you’re apparently rich and beyond smart and –”

“Extremely handsome and good in bed,” Tony supplies easily when Steve stops talking again. There is no impatience in his voice or anything that suggests that he is getting tired of Steve and his obvious inability to cope with what is happening in his life at the moment.

“Yes, all that,” Steve shrugs, trying for nonchalance, “What do you need me for?”

Now it is Tony who takes a moment to think what he is going to say and how to say it.

“You didn’t know who I am. Hell, you still don’t know really or you’d have already run away screaming,” he finally says, tone caught between wonder and bitterness. That is a mixture Steve wants nothing more than to eradicate. “You seem like a good person, and one who doesn’t care for all the money and gossip. You don’t want five minutes of fame, so I feel like I can, well, trust you with this.”

The way Tony says _trust_ indicates that he has not much experience with it. No good experience in any case.

“So you want us to stay married and – what?”

Lack of hero-worship aside, Steve is anything but a good catch. Ex-military, student, wannabe artist; no family, no money, no great expectations. And all of his friends are the same. None of them has anything to lose except each other. But maybe that is just it. Steve comes without liabilities.

Playing with his cup, Tony does not look up at Steve. “I thought I could introduce to my parents.”

Or, Steve thinks, feeling cold all of a sudden, Tony thinks he can easily buy him, no questions asked. He shoots a glance at Bucky, who is still watching them intently, and receives a firm shake of the head in return. _Don’t you dare bow out now_ , it says, _not before you have all the answers you need_.

Bucky knows him too well, knows that, since the war, Steve does not like to take gambles anymore. He makes plans and sticks to them. The more unknown variables he encounters, the greater are the chances of his friends getting hurt.

“But why do you need anyone at all to bring to your parents?” Steve asks, trying to keep his tone neutral and not like he is already halfway out of his seat.

Meanwhile, Tony is too occupied with his own doubts, as it seems, because he still does not look at Steve but has drawn back behind his performance of being overly confident.

“Why does anyone need to pretend they’re in a happy relationship when visiting family?” Tony says flippantly, although his bad mood is not directed at Steve. “My father worries about his legacy, and me living my wild bachelor life without a care in the world doesn’t help one bit. And my mum,” he shrugs carelessly, and Steve would believe it if the motion did not look so very practiced, “I guess she just wants to have something to tell at her galas.”

Most of his resentment drains right out of Steve. Tony does not appear like he has planned to deceive Steve alongside everyone else – or like he has even thought this through, exactly. “That doesn’t sound –”

“Like a caring family?” This startles a laugh out of Tony, and it is such an ugly sound that Steve winces. “Like they give even a single damn about what I do with my life as long as I don’t make them lose face? Yeah, you’d be right about that.”

Because Steve still cannot believe the worst of the world, he does not nod and keep his mouth shut, but says, “I don’t think it’s like that.”

Immediately, Tony‘s skittish behaviour stops and he whips up his eyes to glare at Steve. There is no warmth in them at all, just coolness and a certain implacability that tells Steve that Tony has not lost this fight without resistance.

“Why, because you know them so well?” Tony drawls, not giving an inch. “Listen, Steve, you’re a good person, I’ve gathered that within five minutes of meeting you. But no one is going to fix me, fix us, so you shouldn’t bother trying. If you’re not willing to do this just say so. I’ve got the divorce papers ready. You can just sign and we’ll never have to see each other again. This was just an idea to get me some room to breathe, but I won’t pull you into this against your will.”

“No.” Steve surprises himself with the vehemence of this, of how quickly it comes over his lips like he is afraid he will miss his chance to say it. Tony appears to be very good at talking himself out of things and Steve finds he does not want him to end this before they have even begun.

It is ridiculous. With all he has heard and read, he should be packing his things and go. He does not need this sort of complication in his life.

But he likes Tony. It is as simple as that. The genius, beneath his flashing persona and obnoxiousness, feels like a good man, one who deserves a chance, one Steve should not want to save – as Tony has put it – but who he wants to spend time with anyway, wants to get to know better. If he were to leave now, he has no doubt he would never hear from Tony again beyond what they say about him in the press. But he wants more. And he has never been able to let go of broken things.

“No,” he repeats, “I want to help. I mean, I’m not sure your plan is a very good one, but I’m in.”

A minute passes in which Steve wonders how he can make Tony believe that he is serious, and Tony watches him, searching, and without expression. Until he sighs quietly and takes a sip of coffee.

“And here I thought you weren’t one for spontaneity,” Tony quips but his eyes are serious, grateful even.

Steve has the feeling he will have to do a lot of reading between the lines with Tony. He also thinks it might be worth it. Even though their constant ups and downs has him dizzy already. How is it that he does not know any mentally stable people, who have one mood and stick to it?

“I did let you take me to your hotel room,” Steve reminds him, smiling cheekily and causing Tony to laugh.

“And I’m very glad for that,” the genius says, for once sounding completely honest.

Ever since their one-night-stand they have not touched, clearly careful to give the other space. But right now, with both of them in a light mood, making plans together that go beyond arranging their divorce, Steve feels like reaching out, like pulling Tony in for a kiss. He remembers the scratchy feeling of the goatee on his skin and he wants to feel it again, wants to find out whether the burning it left was just a physical thing or had more to do with who the goatee belongs too.

With effort, he holds himself back. That is not what they are here for anymore, and he is sure that Tony would not appreciate being assaulted like that, just because he has awoken Steve’s long-buried sexual drive.

“What are you thinking about? That scowl looks mighty impressive.” Tony smirks and Steve cannot tear his eyes from those lips.

Without paying it any mind, he says, “I’m thinking about kissing you.”

For a moment there is utter silence between them until Steve’s words register in his head and he whips up his eyes, feverishly trying to come up with an apology. Tony, on the other hand, looks caught between confusion and pleasant surprise.

“I think,” he says, leaning forward to cup one side of Steve’s head with his hand, “I’d be all for that.”

Not a second later, their lips meet and there is nothing shy about the movement. Tony is clearly more practiced, leaning into it with ease, but Steve is driven by a desperate kind of need. His memories of the night they met are still hazy, but what he remembers is a certain feeling that he is just now beginning to build up again inside his chest. He does not have a name for it, only knows that he does not want to miss it again.

Tony’s lips are teasing, tongue ghosting around Steve’s and he thinks it would be so easy to lose himself in that. But then they part, not withdrawing completely but remaining in each other’s personal space, foreheads pressed together.

“That was –” Steve breathes, unable to find the words.

“Long overdue,” Tony finishes without hesitation. “Thought you didn’t want to come anywhere near me again.”

“Whyever not?”

“Well, you seem like the sensible type.”

Instead of answering, Steve dives in for another kiss. That is something they would have to work on, he guesses, Tony’s self-deprecating tendencies. The thought is almost enough to freeze him. He cannot go and make plans for a future that in all likelihood does not exist. He has researched Tony, knows that he is supposed to be sleeping around carelessly. If anything, the two of them are conducting a business deal here, nothing more. Certainly not enough to get attached.

With considerable effort, Steve draws back.

“We should get back to planning,” he says, wondering whether he only imagines the disappointment flickering over Tony’s face at the loss of touch. But as much as he likes Tony, he refuses to be just another fling, to be sucked dry and thrown away when their deal is over.

“Yes,” Tony says, straightening his clothes and sounding distracted, “We should. I’ll contact my parents, then text you the details. Maybe keep your phone at hand for the time being.”

_The time being_ , meaning their days are already numbered.

Suppressing a sigh, Steve nods. “I will. It works much better since you fixed it.”

“I very much hope so.” Tony rolls his eyes. “Well, I’ll better leave then. See you later.”

Just like that, he is gone. Tony has a talent for that. As much as he can absorb all the attention in any room he enters, he also has a knack for disappearing at a moment’s notice, giving no one a chance to intervene and still leaving everyone bereft. Steve sits motionless for a long minute, wondering what just happened and whether he has not made a monumental mistake. He is just not sure whether that mistake was kissing Tony again or letting him go afterwards.

Predictably, Steve is not left in peace for long, for Bucky slides into Tony’s seat only moments after, trying for a neutral face but Steve can easily see the grin threatening to burst on his friend’s lips. Just what he needs right now.

“Pray tell,” Bucky says, almost bubbling with excitement. It is a good look for him, especially considering the times they have been through, but Steve would still prefer it were not at his expense. “What was that?”

“Is your eyesight getting worse?” Steve asks with fake concern. There is no way he is going to make this easy for Bucky. “I was talking with Tony.”

“Oh, there was definitely more than talking going on here.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.” Steve wants to sound joking, does not want to make a bigger deal out of this as it already is. But he feels rejected all of a sudden and he has no one to blame but himself. Naturally, Bucky picks right up on that. Jerk or not, they do know how to read each other.

“What happened?” he asks, completely serious at once.

“Nothing.” At least nothing Steve can explain, nothing _real_ , because he is chasing after a pipe dream here, wishing for a connection that is not there.

“That did not look like nothing,” Bucky points out with a frown, making it clear he will not let this go. They have been too involved with each other’s lives to ever stop needling.

“I kissed him, all right?” Steve snaps, knowing he is being unfair even as he cannot stop glaring “You might all think me a boorish hermit, but I do know how to kiss.” He is angry at himself, really, for always thinking there is more to be had from life.

Leaning back as if to give him more space, Bucky answers calmly, “And he kissed you back. Not unenthusiastically, if I might say so.”

“Yes,” Steve says and trails off, having nothing more to add.

Because with a reputation like that, why would Tony not have reciprocated? The first thing the two of them ever did with each other was to go off to have sex, meaning a certain physical attraction is certainly between them, no matter the whole ‘introducing him to the parents’ thing that is now complicating their very simple, very superficial relationship. It is Steve who has a problem here, who does not do that sort of thing. He is prudish and believes in love – he has been laughed at for that far too many times. But he does not know how nor cares to explain that to Bucky.

Bucky, naturally, ignores Steve’s silent wish. “So, what happened?” he asks after a suitably long silence, stealing Steve’s still half full cup of coffee and drinks.

“Why does something need to have happened?”

“Stevie, don’t be difficult.” Bucky looks at him sternly over the rim of the cup. “You come here all excited. The two of you talk and smile and kiss. Then Stark runs out of here like he’s being chased and you are all sad all of a sudden. What happened?”

Put like this it sounds ridiculous – and completely like Steve’s fault. It seems he has a talent for chasing Tony off.

“It was nice,” he says uneasily, afraid that admitting that out loud will make him even more of a hypocrite. He initiated the kiss and he ducked out. He hopes that is not the end of the story.

Bucky looks at him like he has grown a second head. “Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing? Did you start moaning Peggy’s name or something like that? Because nothing puts a damper on things like talking about your ex, believe me.”

“I did not,” Steve protests like Bucky’s idea is absurd. He does not like to talk about Peggy, and he knows that they are better off being friends, but remembering what they were, even if only for a short time, still hurts. But, for once, he has not thought of her at all, not since meeting Tony. That really says more than he cares to think about.

“But?”

“I mean, this is just a business deal yes?” Steve asks, growing tired of this topic, of reading too much into this. “He picked me up drunk for some meaningless sex –”

“Stevie,” Bucky interrupts him, looking entirely unapologetic, a grin tugging at his lips. “I hate to burst your bubble but, first off, _you_ picked _him_ up, and second,” he grows completely serious again, “the way he looks at you says he is not just in for the convenience of shoving some nice guy in front of his parents.”

“What do you mean, _I_ picked him up?” Steve asks, momentarily ripped out of his mournful musings.

If he tries very hard, he remembers that his drunk mind had zeroed in on Tony like there would be no tomorrow if he did not go over an talk him up. He was perfection in his movements, dancing like his very heartbeat matched the rhythm of the music. Needless to say, drunk Steve is as insistent as he is unsustainable in a sober state.

“Scratch that,” Steve says hastily, not wanting to give Bucky the chance to draw up some epic love story where there is none – only to ask the second worst thing. “How does he look at me?”

Bucky shakes his head in exasperation. “Like he does not want you to go. Like that plan with his parents is the perfect excuse to keep you around for a bit longer.”

What a stupid plan it is then, Steve thinks but says, “Nonsense.”

“Believe what you will, Stevie, but you didn’t see his face when he was leaving.”

Steve manages to pretend for exactly twenty-seven seconds that he does not want to know what Bucky means by that. And still Bucky makes him ask for clarification, smirking just like the idiot he is, enjoying that he can make Steve suffer.

“How was he looking?”

Bucky waits another moment before answering, watching Steve intently. “Like he was already berating himself for leaving instead of turning around and kissing you senseless.”

“You are ridiculous.” Steve scoffs and means it. Tony’s face before he got up was perfectly unmoved, indulgent maybe but not caring one way or the other.

“I resent that,” expecting protest, Bucky gestures dismissively, “but I’m still glad this gives me the opportunity of saying _I told you so_ later.”

“There is no later.”

That at least surprises Bucky, for he sits up straighter, raising his eyebrows as if he had been sure Steve would not refuse. “So you decided not to help him out?”

“What? No, I did. But that’s nothing,” Steve wonders whether he truly sounds as miserable as he feels. Considering the way Bucky cocks his head to the side, he does. “I mean, he’ll drag me to see his parents, we’ll all have one very uncomfortable evening because it’s glaringly obvious that we are neither actually married nor in love, and then we’ll go our separate ways.”

Instead of agreeing, Bucky smirks like he knows something that Steve does not. “You totally managed to miss your opening there.”

“What opening? For what?”

“Your opportunity to meet him again,” Bucky explains, rolling his eyes. “Of course you’ll need to know more about each other if you want to pull this off convincingly.”

Bucky has a point. A very good one at that, one that sounds perfectly reasonable and not at all like Steve is grasping for straws. Like this he might actually see Tony again and be able to salvage what he has just broken by impulsively reaching out. Even though he finds himself wanting to do it again – especially because Tony did not seem put off at all, but reciprocated rather eagerly. Right until Steve pulled back, giving them both the opportunity to realize what they were doing.

“But,” Steve remembers why all of this is a moot point, “we’re leaving Las Vegas tomorrow.”

Clicking his tongue, Bucky shoots him a look that clearly says he should stop being difficult. “Then you’ll go visit my sister in New York. She’ll be thrilled to see you and you have enough time on your hands right now to take a vacation.”

“I can’t just impose like that.”

“On her or on Tony?” Bucky laughs when Steve only shrugs miserably. “Because let me tell you, neither of them will mind.”

Steve honestly doubts that, but how can he refuse when such an opportunity is suddenly put before him? He will have to write Tony to sell this idea, but this way at least he might put an end to his circling thoughts, get closure – even if he secretly thinks that a shame because they have not truly had a chance to _begin_ yet.

“Now, I don’t want to push you,” Bucky says, drowning the last of the coffee before putting the cup down hard, “but this _is_ our last night and I don’t want to spend it with you moping around. So let’s go find the others.” Grinning slightly evilly, he adds, “And you better have your story straight until then, because Nat and Clint won’t be half as forgiving as I am.”

Steve nods in defeat. There is no sense in arguing that because Bucky is right. Natasha is ruthless in all things and Clint will tease him no matter what, so he better not give them more opportunity to attack than necessary. In truth, Steve needs to clear his head. No good decision can come from making it while he is upset and unable to look at the whole picture. Going out with his friends – meaning that he will be busy all night trying to keep them out of trouble – is the perfect way to put some distance between him and this new, unexpected problem.

“I’m not moping,” he argues nonetheless, although already in a considerably lighter mood, now that Bucky has offered him a feasible plan.

“Just make it count.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to everyone who left kudos!  
> Enjoy!

New York is just as Steve remembers. It has always been bigger than him. But it is also so much worse now because he is not that small, scrawny kid anymore, making a sport of being beaten up in every alley of Brooklyn. He has grown up since then, has learned that one cannot always win, not even with endless stubbornness and a ridiculous thirst to do right by the world.

Being welcomed into Becca’s home feels like a step back. They were always friendly as children, but since coming back from the war Steve is almost glad he is an orphan and an only child. No one expected him to return unchanged, to be the same reckless boy who left for shores unknown. His only family had been right at his side, changed in the same ways.

It was never a question whether Bucky wanted to return to New York. He would go where Steve went, and if he was incidentally glad to be gone from his sisters’ overwhelming love then they never talked about that, not with words. They visit for Christmas and they are happy to leave it at that.

Bucky came with him now too but stayed gladly behind to catch up with his sister when Steve decided to take a walk, roam the streets burned into his memory, retracing the steps of his younger, much more bitter self.

Life had always been a struggle. First against hunger and coldness and the blazing absence of his father. Then against his mother’s illness, which was such a strange thing to accept because it had always been him who was sickly and bound to bed, too weak to move. Her death, then, and the first of so many questions he would never get to answer, so many _what if_ s he would never get around living. Bucky’s family had been good to him, taking him in as one of their own, and still he had always been itching to leave, to make his own way and find something worth living for. Which, as it turned out, was not the war but what he already has: Bucky, his small family of choice.

Steve is not quite sure how Tony fits into his desire to make life worthwhile. Art makes him happy and his friends keep him occupied. He already has so much love in his life that he has never actively looked for something more personal. Not since Peggy. Their breakup had been hard even if it was not surprising. Lately he has started thinking that he maybe loved the idea of her more than the reality of them being together.

And Tony – Tony is _alive_ in a way that Steve barely knows how to grasp. By that he does not mean the countless exploits depicted in the tabloids, the drunken shenanigans and endless parade of dates. He does not mean the displayed confidence and awareness of his father’s legacy. But beneath the surface, Tony appears vibrant. The smallest glimpse of the light in his eyes and small, honest smiles; the way he talked on the phone in the motel, worried and defiant and not expecting to measure up; the short moment of peacefulness replacing all masks on his face right after waking up or tinkering – even only looking in from the outside, Steve feels revived when watching Tony. Enough so that, consequences be damned, he does not want to let go.

Steve has not told Tony that he is coming to New York. Which might have been a rather bad idea, since the genius has to have a lot on his plate and not much time to waste on nuisances like Steve. But Bucky had been right in pushing Steve to go as soon as possible, because any amount of time would have been little enough for him to change his mind. And had he already had a meeting with Tony scheduled, he can easily imagine chickening out. Still, it seems strange to be in the same city like Tony again, no matter how big New York is and that they have not been entirely out of contact for the past two week, sending the occasional text and even sharing a late-night call full of weird questions like what Steve’s favourite flowers are and whether he is allergic to anything.

Tony remains a conundrum but instead of that putting Steve off he just finds himself drifting closer. Which he blames entirely on Bucky, because he never used to be this spontaneous. At least with things not involving a fight.

Without giving himself time to back out again, he takes out his phone and sends a message to Tony and does not bother putting it away again because for the past weeks, Tony has managed without fail to text him back within seconds. He suspects that JARVIS is involved, for Steve knows that Tony is working hard, but he will not complain, not when his heart flutters nervously each time he gets another text.

_What are you doing in NY?_ Tony writes, as predicted, only a moment later.

_Scratch that. Don’t care. Got time for lunch?_

Completely involuntarily, Steve’s lips pull themselves into a big, goofy grin. For a brief moment, he wonders whether he should refuse, just to seem not as eager, or to ask whether Tony truly has time, for it is a workday. But then he only texts back his agreement. Because he _is_ eager, and he is glad if Tony makes time for him.

He declines Tony’s offer to let himself be picked up by a driver – he still is a kid from Brooklyn – and rather makes his way downtown at a brisk pace. Walking through New York with a purpose also helps with all the memories ready to haunt him.

It takes Steve a bit longer than the agreed thirty minutes to arrive at the small restaurant Tony had proposed, and Tony is already there, sitting near the back, busying himself with a tablet. That gives Steve the perfect opportunity to watch him closely as he slowly makes his way toward him.

It hits Steve again how handsome Tony is. Not press-conference handsome for now, but in an effortless way that has Steve’s fingers itching to draw him. If not for the waiter next to him, Steve could have stayed standing there for hours, just staring.

Alas, that is the moment that Tony looks up. If Steve thought him beautiful before, it is nothing compared to this, a smile full of genuine cheer.

“Steve,” Tony calls as he gets to his feet, “I was wondering whether you had stood me up.” He says it with a grin, pointing at the clock that shows Steve is all of ten minutes late.

“Never,” Steve answers, more earnest then the joke calls for, but they are saved from the moment becoming awkward by the waiter who stands by silently until they are both seated before handing them the menus with practiced flourish.

“Don’t take me serious,” Tony says when they are alone. “I brought work, so I easily could have waited for hours.”

Biting his lip, Steve refrains from asking whether he _would_ have too. “I forgot how big this city is. Walking took longer than I expected it to.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Tony remarks dryly, “Only a madman would walk here.”

“Only a madman would own a car,” Steve counters immediately, not surprised in the least.

Not missing a beat, Tony says, “Good thing then that I own several.”

That reminds Steve of the tortured heap of scrap metal they share with Nat and Clint at home, which he is sure runs only on their sweat and prayers. But Clint got it from a friend and Bucky fixed it up for them as best as he could. Driving it is neither safe nor comfortable, but they love it and it fits them. Not to speak of how lucky they are to have a car at all.

“So you can get stuck in traffic with a different car each day?” Steve then jokes, not letting any of that show in his voice.

They grin at each other as the waiter comes and brings water and wine before taking their orders. Tony talks to the man in fluent Italian and seems altogether familiar with the place. Nobody is staring at them here and the staff does not go out of their way to be accommodating just because they have a celebrity in their midst.

“Well,” Tony says once they are alone again, leaning back in his seat, “my dad did use to dream about building flying cars. Would solve the traffic problem.”

And bring about several others, Steve thinks but does not say. Instead he asks, “But not anymore?”

The thought is utterly alien to Steve. All of his dreams involve practical things. He cannot imagine having the mind and means to actually forge the future like that, changing things on the grand scale. He always wished he could leave the world a better place than he has found it, but knew he would have to do it one problem, one person at a time. Flying cars might not be what he had in mind but it is still so much more than he will likely ever create.

“Nah,” Tony says, going for nonchalance but quite a deal of fondness shines through. It is the first time he speaks of anything involving his father without resignation. “Too many regulations.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Everything’s possible.”

Steve has no difficulties believing Tony. He does seem like the kind of person who would do the impossible, just to prove someone wrong.

“To tell the truth,” he nevertheless says, keeping his tone light, “I don’t think flying cars would really improve New York’s skyline.”

“You’re probably right, being the artist and all. Also I do prefer Malibu. I think you’d like my house there,” Tony shrugs carelessly, clearly thinking nothing about throwing mentions of his wealth about. And Steve does not even hold it against him. Money has obviously not made Tony a happier person than him.

“As long as it does not look like your tower here,” Steve says without thinking, then stops short, feeling his ears go hot, and tries to backpedal. “I mean, the tower’s all right, I guess. And very economic from what I hear, so that’s –”

Tony’s laughter cuts him off. “Don’t bother. All I designed was R&D and my office, so I’m not offended.”

“Thank god,” Steve mutters automatically, then ducks his head. He had not wanted to say that out loud. But Tony still seems amused.

“I don’t think you could do anything to offend me,” Tony says rather matter-of-factly, although his eyes are still alight with mischief. “You’re too nice. Truly.”

If only Tony knew into how many fights Steve has gotten and how many of them could have been avoided if he had not taken it upon himself to be upset about nothing and anything at all. He wonders whether they would have liked each other as children. Steve, at least, has certainly grown up since then – which means that he now thinks before throwing himself into a fight. Sometimes.

“Anyway, and don’t think I’m complaining here,” Tony waves his hand dismissively, speaking with a nonchalance Steve can only hope is fake, “but don’t you have better things to do then to come up to New York on a whim?”

“Why do you think this wasn’t a planned trip?” Steve asks, intent on not giving too much away. Having time for an impromptu lunch is one thing, but traveling to another city is quite another. “Bucky has family here.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.” Steve smiles. He does have fond memories of this place. “We grew up together in Brooklyn.”

Tony grimaces slightly at that, but he does it in a confused way that does not have Steve jumping to defend his home. To someone growing up rich, Brooklyn must seem like an entirely different world.

“So Bucky came too?” he asks, skilfully changing the topic, and cranes his neck, looking around to see whether Bucky has once again accompanied Steve as a sort of chaperone – or rather to be better able to convey their meeting to their other friends later.

“He’s at home with his sister,” Steve answers, hiding his relief at that. Getting those two together could only end in disaster for him.

“Speaking of best friends, I should really call mine.” Tony seems subdued for a moment, like he regrets that reality is knocking again. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate his assistance in this matter.”

Back to business then, Steve thinks with some inexplicable sadness, but when he speaks he takes care to keep his tone cheerful. “You haven’t told him?”

“No, nothing yet. Not even the marriage part.” It sounds so surreal, mentioned this casually. _Marriage_. “He’ll never let me live this down.”

“He’d fit in nicely with my friends then.” Steve is acutely aware that Bucky spent half the trip here texting with Nat and Clint, unable to leave off the constant joking and scheming even for a short time. And despite them having been at it almost constantly since they came back from Las Vegas. “But how is he going to help?”

The question leaves Tony looking at him with something like well-worn resignation. “Believe me when I say you’ll need a buffer between you and my parents if you want to get through dinner with them intact.”

Tony says that with the same nonchalance he always adopts when coming even close to talking about his family and it predictably sits very wrong with Steve.

“But you’ll be there,” Steve ends up voicing that like a question because of how uncomfortable Tony appears at the subject, although his expression is as lazy and unconcerned as ever. But his fingers are drumming against the tablecloth, itching closer to his wine glass in a way that seems painfully obvious to Steve.

“And I’ll do my part,” Tony says in a tone that suggests the opposite, “but pitching me against my father will not guarantee that you’ll have an easy time of it.”

“What do you mean with ‘pitching’?”

For a moment Tony looks like he is going to explain – it is nothing more than his gaze flicking up to meet Steve’s and a brief thinning of his lips – but the moment is over as quickly as it has come and soon Tony is rolling his eyes and making an abortive gesture with his hand.

“My father likes Rhodey. He will be much more civilized with him there.”

That takes Steve aback for a moment, before he asks incredulously, “You want to invite your friend to the dinner you’re introducing your husband to your parents?”

“Yes,” Tony exclaims cheerfully like there is nothing strange about the idea, then nods imperiously. “In fact, let me make that phone call right now. We’ll need to schedule that dinner soon before Rhodey is out of the country again. I hope you don’t mind.”

Slightly bewildered, Steve shakes his head, wondering for the umpteenth time what he has gotten himself into here – and how long it might have taken for Tony to skip around unpleasant topics so easily. It is not quite subtle, of course, but it does leave Steve wanting to be able to do the same. But his conversation skills have never been something to take pride in.

Meanwhile, Tony has taken out his phone – which really is in a whole other class than Steve’s – with a small, private smile on his face that is different from the one he wore when getting to work on tech but just as honest. He also does not get up to talk where he cannot be overheard, which is oddly touching.

“Platypus,” Tony calls out happily as soon as the call connects. The nickname surprises Steve, although he supposes it should not. Tony does seem like the kind to use ridiculous names, just not like he would use them quite so easily in public.

“ _Tones_ ,” Steve can hear the man on the other end say in a tone that is both jovial and wary, like nothing good can come from a sudden call from Tony.

Steve wonders whether he should get up himself or tell Tony that he is able to hear the whole conversation. It is rude, after all, to eavesdrop. In the end, though, he merely settles back into his chair and chooses to use the opportunity to learn more about his temporary husband.

“Do you remember when you promised me you’d be my best man were I ever to marry so you could make sure I’m not walking down the aisle completely drunk, making a fool of the unlucky girl I somehow conned into taking me?” Tony says all of that with such a cheer and not one ounce of self-consciousness that Steve almost chokes on the sip of water he has taken.

“ _I believe those were my exact words, yes,”_ Rhodey answers, definitely warier now but not surprised. This kind of conversation cannot be that seldom an occurrence then _. “What have you done?_ ”

“So little trust,” Tony whines, “you wound me.” When he catches Steve’s eyes, he mouths, _Can you believe him?_

“ _If you could still be wounded by that, there would still be hope. So, what happened?_ ”

“I kind of married,” Tony says, wincing. “Drunk.”

Of course he would just put it out like that. Then again, Steve muses, there is not much more to the story, no explanations or excuses.

_“You – what?”_ A sigh on the other end, long-suffering enough to have Steve hide a grin. He should probably take it as a warning though.

“It’s actually your fault.” Without the slightest show of shame, Tony pouts, and it is audible in his tone.

“ _How?_ ” Rhodey asks immediately, making it clear he will not just take the blame because Tony decided to heap it on him. Strangely enough that makes Steve relax, because it surely speaks in Tony’s favour if his friends have no qualms to speak up against him, no matter his name and money. “ _I leave you alone for one vacation –_ ”

“You leave me alone a whole lot more than that.”

Again the pouting. This time, however, it seems less exaggerated, and Steve can relate. If this is the best friend Tony said is in the Army, they cannot have many opportunities to meet each other. All the bad parts aside, Steve is very glad that he at least had Bucky with him almost all his time abroad instead of being left behind, having to muddle through life without him.

_“Not my point,”_ Rhodey says, albeit a good deal softer, which makes Tony smile sadly. _“What did you do?”_

“Oh, you know, when in Las Vegas.”

Steve winces as the reality of their situation once again crashes in on him. It truly happened like that, but it is so unlike him. Going out, getting drunk, following a random stranger home. He thinks of marriage as a sacred thing, something to be well thought about, meant for life and the right person. He must have been well and truly gone to just do it on a whim. He wonders whether his mother would be horrified or congratulating him for livening up.

_“Who’s the poor girl?”_ Rhodey asks, once again sounding not very surprised, which only highlights the differences between Tony and Steve, not only in their social standing but their morals too. _“I hope you haven’t absolutely terrified her yet.”_

“ _She_ is a guy bigger than you,” Tony says offhandedly, but his smirk dies quickly when he looks at Steve, “and just now he is glaring at me with the kind of intensity that is sure to give me a heart attack.”

_“I’d say you deserve it.”_

Just like that, Steve decides that he likes Rhodey. They must have a worthwhile friendship indeed if they can snipe at each other like that, while still be willing to suffer each other’s nonsense. Of course it reminds Steve of his own friends, and he is inexplicably glad to know that Tony has such friends of his own, even though he had no reason to suppose otherwise.

“Probably.” Shrugging, Tony flashes Steve an apologetic smile, which he accepts graciously, deciding to see the humour in the situation. “Anyway, I’d hoped you could help me with something.”

_“No.”_

The promptness of the answer startles a laugh out of Steve. It totally gives up the illusion of him not listening in but he cannot help it. He remembers Bucky refusing him in that same exact tone when Steve wanted to rush off into fights back when they where children and Bucky still had illusions of being able to stop the wheezing little bundle of injuries waiting to happen that he called his best friend. It speaks of long-suffering experience.

“You haven’t heard me out yet.” Petulance. Classic move.

_“I know the kind of brilliant plans you usually come up with. So no, not happening. And if your bride can hear me, tell him to run as fast as he can.”_

Tony shoots him a look that clearly says, _Don’t listen to him_ , but when he turns his attention back to his phone, his expression is somewhat pained, already expecting vehement protest at what he is going to say next.

“I want him to meet my parents.”

At the other end of the line, there is a deafening silence. And Steve cannot fault Rhodey for that. Put like that, even if they are not taking Tony’s standing into the equation, it sounds quite mad.

_“You what? I can’t even begin to tell you how bad an idea that is.”_

“But why,” Tony asks, back to whining, “they’ve been bugging me for ages to bring home someone.”

_“Yes,”_ Rhodey says, and Steve does not have to know him to hear the exasperation in his tone, _“a daughter-in-law with more sense than you, so that they have someone to show off at galas and secure Howard’s legacy. Not some drunk guy with no self-control, stumbling around drunk in Las Vegas.”_

Steve ducks his head, avoiding to look at Tony. He should not be hurt by that because it is nothing but the truth. So what if he does not usually drink? So what if it were his friends that pushed him into going out in the first place? He did go and he did drink until he could not make sensible decisions anymore. And he did get married to a stranger. One with enough money to make anyone suspicious of Steve’s motives.

It is a best friend’s job to worry; he would do the same for Bucky, and the others too. But it does hurt, because Steve is not usually that person other people think or talk badly about.

“Steve is a good person.”

_“You’ve found that out during your long courtship?”_

Tony’s attempt at defending him is soothing in its way, but the fact remains that Rhodey is right. It brings up the question what exactly Steve is doing here. This is such a stupid, mad thing to even contemplate, especially for someone who has always dreamt of romance.

“He, for one, is against the idea too,” Tony says, eyeing Steve intently and shaking his head in a decided manner that makes it clear that he knows that Steve is thinking of bolting.

_“There you have it. You can’t force him to endure a Stark family meeting,”_ Rhodey says that like it is a poisonous thing and Tony does not look like he is going to contradict him _._ Steve wonders whether he actually wants to find out what all of that is about. _“Not even you have enough money to pay for that.”_

“But that could get them off my back,” Tony argues, something almost desperate creeping into his tone, but Rhodey remains relentless.

_“For the five minutes you can manage to keep up the farce. And during those five minutes, they’ll probably yell at you for keeping your secret beau from them.”_

Tony, however, appears not as discouraged as Rhodey might have hoped, because he perks up in his seat, almost like Clint does when he feels he has almost managed to con Bucky into cooking for all of them again. “We’d obviously need a plan.”

_“There’s no_ we _here, Tones.”_

“Rhodey,” Tony grins like he has already won. “Please.”

Another silence, this one much shorter but more meaningful too.

_“Why?”_

“You should meet him,” Tony answers simply. Which might, despite being a terrifying prospect, actually be a good idea. If only to make sense of this whole thing, to maybe meet someone who could give Steve an insight into how Tony thinks and why he acts as he does.

_He is sitting right next to you,_ Steve thinks but does not say it out loud. He does not appreciate being talked about, but thinks he might have to let the two men hash this out if he ever wants to get to the bottom of this.  

_“He won’t stick around that long.”_

At that, Tony looks up worriedly at Steve, not quite concerned that he has heard that but looking like he thinks it is true. When he speaks, his voice holds enough bitterness to make Steve lean slightly away from him.

“Because I’m that horrible a person.”

_“You know that’s not what I mean.”_ Rhodey sounds apologetic but also like this is a battle he has fought often and lost each time.

“Sure sounded like it.” Tony sounds both glum and resigned at the same time. Enough so that Steve wants to reach out and hold his hand in a show of support. Thankfully, he realized how crazy a move that would be and keeps all his limbs to himself.

_“What does he get out of it?”_ Rhodey then asks, wise enough to change the topic. _“Are you paying him?”_

Another worried glance, but Steve is too occupied to notice. Because that is not a question he could answer. What does he get out of this, other than spending more time with Tony? Which, of course, should be more than enough reward.

“He hasn’t even said yes yet,” Tony’s eyes are never leaving Steve, “which is why I need you, to tell him how much good it would do for my parents to have, however temporary, a son-in-law to torture.”

Steve _has_ said yes, however reluctantly. Maybe Tony is better at picking up mere social nicety than he lets on, knowing he will have to do quite a bit more convincing if he wants Steve truly on board with the idea.

_“You are really good at selling your plans.”_ Rhodey says, taking the words right out of Steve’s mouth.

“Please,” Tony exclaims, sounding completely earnest for once, “just meet us. I know you’re still on leave.”

_“Fine.”_ A sigh, more fond than annoyed. _“Just because I like you for some inexplicable reason. And someone has to save that poor man from you.”_

And Tony, the little shit, grins like he has known from the very beginning that Rhodey would give in, just like he believes that Steve will cave to his increasingly mad ideas.

“Thank you, platypus.”

When Tony hangs up there is a moment of silence in which Tony stares fondly at the phone and Steve watches Tony closely. He knows that smile, knows the very feel of it from whenever he meets his own friends.

“You sound like a handful,” he then says, his voice light.

“Oh,” Tony answers immediately, meeting Steve’s gaze head on, “you don’t know half of it.”

No, Steve thinks, he does not, but he wants to. He is already too far in for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Also, I finally watched Infinity War yesterday and then spent half the night writing because I couldn't just go to sleep. The potential... no spoilers here but I loved that movie!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who read or left a comment or kudos. You all make me happy.

Their dinner date is set for later that evening, because, as Tony says, Rhodey does not like to give him too much time to mull over his bad ideas, lest they get even worse. Steve cannot argue with that, but what worries him is that they will meet at Rhodey’s instead of some neutral place in town. It puts him at a disadvantage, although he hates thinking like that. Still, he is walking right into the unknown, with nothing but an overly excited billionaire at his side who picked him up in Brooklyn to make sure he ‘does not get lost navigating the better parts of town.’ In return, Steve has nagged him so long that he has gotten the promise that he can take Tony out to his favourite pizzeria in Brooklyn, merely a block from where he used to live with his mother. It is not purely meant as vengeance, but if Steve has to venture this far out of his world, why should Tony not do the same?

“Relax,” Tony says when the car stops and Steve makes no move to get out, “Rhodey’s not going to give you a hard time.”

“How do you know?”

Steve likes to think that Bucky would make Tony’ life difficult if he thought he was dragging him into some unsavoury business. Then again, Bucky had apparently already conspired with Tony to put Steve deeper into this mess. So his best friend might not be the best measure for how normal best friends would react in this situation.

Tony, on the other hand, is completely at ease. “He’ll be too busy yelling at me to bother with you.”

“You realize that’s not very reassuring, yes?”

Steve is nervous, but then Tony reaches out to let his hand lay on Steve’s shoulder. He does not linger long but Steve still feels his warmth, the comfortable weight enough to ground him.

“Rhodey is a good man, believe me. A much better one than me.”

And Steve does believe that Tony believes that. He has no way to compare just yet, but he does know that Tony likes to give himself too little credit. It is obvious in every other sentence he says, if one is willing to listen beyond the bravado and constant self-importance.

Before Steve can protest, however, Tony has climbed out of the car, knocking impatiently at the window to get Steve to follow him out. Deciding he will not get anything more out of Tony anyway, Steve gives in, although he is not quite able to suppress the churning of his stomach. Meeting Tony’s best friend makes this thing of theirs all the more real, more so than all this talk about having dinner with his parents. Tony avoids talking about his family, and when he does it is with little emotion, none of it good. Things with Rhodey are the complete opposite. So, yes, despite their marriage not being real, and Tony and him not being actual friends, this is a big deal.

Obviously tired of waiting but not cold-hearted enough to let Steve deal completely on his own, Tony grabs his arm and pulls him into the house and up three stories, where he rings at the door to the right, only to immediately get a key out of his pocket and proceeds to let himself in.

“Rhodey won’t mind,” Tony says when he catches sight of Steve’s frown. “In fact, he’d only complain if I let him come all the way to the door instead of just going in.”

“Have you ever heard me complaining about you having manners?” sounds a voice from the inside, the same mix of amused and exasperated that Steve has already heard on the phone. “No, because you don’t have any.”

A dark-skinned man appears in the doorway, tall and matching the bright smile Tony wears. If all their happy bickering had not been clue enough, one look at them shows just how much they mean to each other. Steve supposes he looks the same way at Bucky.

“I’ll have you know that my parents paid good money to teach me how to behave properly.” Tony sniffs, never losing his smile.

“Which is just more proof that rich people have no sense about how to spend their money.”

Then they hug – which is more like Tony sinking into Rhodey’s readily opened arms and clinging onto him like it is their last time to see each other. Strangely enough, the sight has Steve relaxing immensely. Looking at the character the press paints when speaking of Tony Stark, one should probably not trust his people skills, but this is not that Tony but one completely without masks, if only for the short moment he is in his best friend’s arms. Rather embarrassingly and completely out of turn, Steve wishes for a moment that Tony would look at him like that.

When they part, the moment is over. Tony is smirking when he turns around and Rhodey wears a somewhat appropriate scowl.

“Rhodey-bear, let me introduce to you Stevie who, after careful hours of wooing and a passionate whirlwind of a romance, agreed to become my beloved husband.”

For once, Steve does not feel like blushing. Instead, it takes effort to keep his lips up in an estimate of a smile, feeling rather sad all of a sudden. Even with Peggy he has never much thought about marriage and getting married himself, but that does not make the longing for it to be real, for romance happening to him, any less crushing.

He does not show any of that, however, when he steps forward to offer his hand to Rhodey, who accepts it easily.

“Colonel Rhodes,” the man introduces himself in a tone that has Steve wanting to salute, which no doubt was the intention behind it. He looks like a no-nonsense kind of guy, which makes him immediately more likeable, even despite the borderline-glare he trains on Steve.

“Steve Rogers,” he greets, not bothering to use his old rank, although it might have bought him some goodwill. He does not want to grovel using the parts of his life he does not actually remember in the best of ways.

Rhodey ushers them in, closing the door with a finality that has Steve realizing that they are actually doing this. No turning back now.

“Tony has told me next to nothing about you,” Rhodey then says as they follow Tony down the hall.

Steve almost winces, because what could Tony have told when he simply knows next to nothing about Steve. And vice versa. What a pair they make.

“Well,” Steve decides to change the topic by taking the offensive, “he told me you’re his best friend, so thank you for the invitation.”

Even while Rhodey rolls his eyes, this earns Steve a smile nonetheless. “He only calls me that when he wants something.”

“That’s not true, sourpatch,” Tony argues cheerfully as he latches himself onto Rhodey’s arm. “You’re always my best friend. No one else can stand me.”

They reach a tastefully furnished living room, where Rhodey comes to a halt, lips twitching into a smirk. “Did Pepper make you work again today?”

“She yelled at me for missing some board meeting while I was out for lunch with Steve.”

While Tony pouts, Steve feels taken aback, looking at Rhodey with something like panic in his eyes. “I didn’t know,” he says, feeling bad for causing Tony to get into trouble. “I’m sorry.” Turning towards the smaller man, he all but hisses, “You should have told me you had no time.” All he gets in response is a dismissive snort that does not help at all to make him feel better.

“It’s not your fault,” Rhodey unexpectedly comes to his rescue, “Tony always does his best to avoid those meetings.”

“You’re no fun, either of you,” Tony exclaims with a disgusted expression before walking off further into the living room to flop down on the couch.

For a moment, Rhodey’s eyes meet Steve’s and he shrugs in the universal, helpless gesture of _What can you do?_ , but he wears a fond expression through all of it.

“Anyway,” Rhodey then says, turning all his attention on Steve, “get comfortable here. I need some more time until dinner is ready.” A moment of hesitation, then he grins. “I can interrogate you just as well when we’ve got something to eat. Just don’t do anything inappropriate in here.”

Before Steve has to think of something to answer, Tony calls, “Would I ever?” causing Rhodey to burst into laughter.

“Says the man who buys me a stripper every year for my birthday.”

The worst thing is, Steve can imagine that without difficulty.

“Oh, come on,” Tony whines, “you don’t get to complain. It’s a joke, but it’s also an awfully nice thing to do for one’s best friend.”

Instead of continuing the banter, Rhodey shakes his head and backs out into the hall. “No funny business,” he calls and then he is gone, leaving Steve with the feeling that, maybe, this evening will not be as hard as he has feared.

Still a bit hesitant, he makes his way over to the couch and sits down much more gracefully than Tony, who looks ready to fall asleep at a moment’s notice but props himself up into a sitting position in a clear attempt to make an effort for Steve.

“Sorry,” he says, suppressing a yawn, “didn’t get much sleep tonight. Or the night before.”

“Work?” Steve asks, because he does not want to think of Tony going to any parties, finding other people to stumble into bed with drunk. It is hardly his place to judge; he would not be here after all if not for Tony’s tendencies to, well, live life to the fullest. But now that he _is_ here, he hopes to not be replaced too easily.

“That’s what happens when work is your hobby.” Tony’s voice sounds completely honest, but something in his expression is off. A possible explanation for that comes when he adds, “I’ve been missing some of my father’s deadlines because I was occupied with personal projects.”

The family thing again. Steve would ask more if only Tony would not look so embarrassed at having offered that much already. It has Steve feeling strangely flattered.

Afraid that they will fall into abrupt awkwardness, Steve blurts out, “I brought you something,” only to bite his tongue directly after.

It is stupid and Tony will most likely not even remember or _care_ , but he had not been able to stop thinking about it. It is not quite the right place for this either, sitting in a strange man’s living room while he is in the kitchen fixing their dinner, but this might just be the last time he ever sees Tony, depending on how their evening turns out, and Steve just wants to make the most of it.

When he looks up, Tony’s face holds something like wonder. “You did?” he asks, pleasantly surprised, making no jokes for once, does not tap the nearest surface.

Deciding that he cannot go back now, Steve reaches into the inside of his jacket and gets out a small sketchbook. Without any outward hesitation, he pushes it over to Tony, barely refraining from looking pointedly away. How will he ever survive having his pieces up in a gallery if he cannot take a single person looking at them in private? Although his reluctance is mostly due to who this one person is. He just wants Tony to think well of him.

Contrary to Steve’s expectation, Tony does not snatch up the book to flip through it before making some noncommittal comment. In fact, he does not even reach out for it at first, but stares at it before looking up at Steve, not moving an inch.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, biting the inside of his cheek, “you probably don’t remember, but you said you wanted to see something I’d drawn, so I thought –” He gestures helplessly at the sketchbook, marvelling that he has not already hidden it away again.

“I remember,” Tony says softly, lips curving into a small smile. “Are you sure?” He waits until Steve nods before he sits up properly again and finally reaches out.

It is strange how this carefulness does not seem out of character at all, no matter how brash Tony usually conducts himself.

In another, impressive show of restraint, Steve does not lean forward, does not direct Tony to look at particular pieces, does not make him skim the worse ones. These are all sketches anyway, no one should expect something grand of them. He thought about bringing a finished piece, something he takes some pride in, something _more_ than this, but decided that it would look like he put too much thought into a thing that should not mean much at all. So, instead, Tony holds his current sketchbook, full of doodles and hasty studies; here the Brooklyn Bridge, there Clint’s horribly mangy dog, Nat looking strangely peaceful as she naps, Bucky’s arm in all its hopeful glory.

And also: Tony. These are not all the sketches he has of Tony but there are enough to show that Steve is interested, intrigued. Here they show Tony laughing, there with a smirk but unbearably soft eyes. Hands holding a screwdriver, hair sticking up every which way, drinking coffee with his eyes closed.

This is a mistake, Steve realizes with sudden panic shooting through his system. If not for Tony’s difficulties with his father, they would already be divorced and long gone their separate ways again. Steve would not be here, would not have had the opportunity to witness even half of the scenes he has drawn. His mind is in enough of a frenzy that he has almost talked himself into getting up and running away when Tony looks up. And, as Steve has already come to expect, he changes everything.

“You drew me,” Tony says, but he does not sound at all like Steve would have imagined. No smugness, no teasing, no half-joking offer to pose for him for real. Just that surprised wonder again that should not fit a man who is supposed to have everything.

As it is, Steve barely manages to be embarrassed anymore at being found out. “I draw a lot of what’s on my mind.”

There are a thousand things Tony could have said to that, most of which would have drawn them back to their reality – the one that does not include them smiling gently at each other over coffee, baring their souls and maybe thinking about the future in less definite terms. But Tony does not say anything. He simply lingers over his own image before turning the page and going on, taking his time to study each drawing like he is genuinely interested. It should feel awkward but all Steve does feel is contentment.

Once Tony reaches the end, he pages back to the drawing of Bucky’s arm, leaning over it to better take in the details.

“You really are good,” he remarks quietly as he closes the book, keeping his hand on the cover for a moment before he pushes it gingerly back to Steve. “Thank you.”

_Thank you for what?_ Steve wants to ask, _drawing you or showing you? For still being here at all?_

Thankfully, this is the moment Rhodey comes back, saving Steve from having to answer by calling them to dinner. It might be Steve’s imagination, but when he hastily puts the sketchbook back into his pocket, Tony’s eyes linger on it. What he definitely does not imagine, is his smile.

_Careful_ , he thinks, _don’t get attached. Whatever you do, don’t get attached._ He just fears it is far too late for that.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is simple but delicious, pasta and salad, and not interrupted by too many tense questions. Which is hardly possible anyway, because Tony keeps Rhodey thoroughly occupied with falling back into bickering any time Steve looks even remotely uncomfortable. It is heart-warming, and Steve could not be more grateful.

“What where you doing in Las Vegas?” Rhodey asks at one point. “No offence, but that doesn’t seem to be your thing.” Upon seeing that Tony perks up at the question, he throws him a look, clearly saying, _I can’t believe you didn’t ask sooner. What do you actually know about this guy?_

Steve would laugh at that, if it were not so terribly true – and he is secretly glad that Rhodey seems to have changed his estimation of Steve’s character. As it is, he can barely hold back from groaning when he remembers the tons of increasingly ridiculous arguments he had with his friends before finally giving up and letting them carry him off to drinks and mayhem.

“My friends thought it would do me good to get out for once and took full advantage when I gave in,” he says, fondness clouding his voice. His friends might lack common sense but he does love them. “I’m getting represented in a small gallery next month, so they said we should go celebrate.”

“And celebrate you did,” Tony smirks, voice unbearably smug. “I have to say I’m glad that your friends took charge.”

Steve would never admit it out loud but he is too, although something softens in Tony’s face when their eyes meet, so he supposed he is more obvious than he has hoped.

“Tony mentioned you are an artist,” Rhodey says, completely ignoring his best friend, clearly used to his inability to stay serious or on topic. “So, congratulations are in order then?”

Ducking his head, Steve shrugs uncomfortably. “It’s a big deal for me, but it’s a small gallery and likely nothing will come of it.”

“But it’s a first step.” That is what Natasha had said, accompanied by a fist to his shoulder, unwilling to let his pessimism take over.

“Why shouldn’t anything come of it?” Tony pipes up, his interest re-awakened. “You’re amazing.”

“You’ve only seen sketches,” Steve mutters, feeling himself blush _again_.

Meanwhile, Tony and Rhodey look at each other intently until Tony gives up and, rolling his eyes, says, “Oh, shut it, sourpatch, I’m not just saying that because I want to get him in my bed. Already done that, if you remember.” Leaning towards Steve, he adds conspiratorial, “Pepper says I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body, but I can tell if someone is good.”

While Rhodey is torn between calling bullshit on Tony’s supposed expertise and not wanting to offend his guest, Steve wonders how things could have become this awkward so quickly. Although he might just feel it more because while art is what he wants to do with his life, he does not like to discuss it. Not his own work, at least.

“Show him,” Tony then demands, holding out his hand imperiously. When nothing happens he directs such a hilarious pleading look at him that Steve finds himself getting out his sketchbook again before he really knows what he is doing.

Rhodey, in turn, dutifully takes it, which leaves Steve glaring at Tony who merely credits that with a satisfied grin.

“What can I say,” he says, adding insult to injury, “I usually get what I want. It’s better to just get used to it.”

“Or call Pepper, if you need to set him straight,” Rhodey mutters under his breath as he pages through the book.

He does not take as much time as Tony did, but he does not hurry like someone doing only what he is forced to do. Predictably, he also pauses over the sketches of Tony, looking up briefly with an unreadable expression.

“For once,” he then says upon handing the book back, “I have to agree with Tony.”

“There’s no reason not to do that all the time,” Tony throws in happily, apparently just for the sake of having said it, as he keeps happily munching his food.

“And I certainly wish you luck with that exhibition.”

Rhodey looks at him with a more genuine smile than he has worn all night, which Steve cannot even begin to comprehend. Usually, people are wary of artists, even if they are good – and especially if said artists show interest in one’s rich friends. So Rhodey’s apparent change of mind leaves him confused.

“Thank you,” he says but must appear so uncomfortable that Rhodey takes pity on him and changes the topic. Sadly, however, to the one other thing Steve does not actually want to discuss, since it does nothing but remind him of reality.

“I guess we should talk about your moronic plan at one point.” To emphasize, Rhodey gestures between the two men with his fork, not bothering to hide his small smile.

Steve does not smile but hunches his shoulders instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Tony does not seem very happy either with the direction their conversation has taken. He does not quite frown but his expression grows bored and he reaches for his wine glass.

“What’s there to talk about?” he asks in an offhand tone between two sips.

“Well, I hope you don’t just want to throw Steve in there and hope for the best,” Rhodey’s tone is chiding, “I don’t have to tell you that would likely not end well.”

Even with how little Steve knows that is rather obvious. But for a certified genius, Tony does seem slow when confronted with delicate social situations.

“You’ll obviously have to be there,” Tony says. No question, no explanation.

Steve, knowing this would come at some point, watches Rhodey closely, who says, “No,” very promptly but does look neither surprised nor like he will put up much of a fight. These two truly have a strange friendship going. Although Steve supposes he is not one to judge, considering how very co-dependant he and his friends are, living nearly on top of each other as if the world will come to an end if they do not breathe the same air for several days a week.

“Do it for Steve,” Tony counters without a moment of hesitation, and sounding rather earnest about it too.

Rhodey shows himself just as unimpressed. “Steve is doing this whole ridiculous thing for you. Ergo, you can’t blame this on him.” Rhodey smiles when Tony starts pouting. “Are you sure you want to owe me even more favours?”

Shrugging, Tony says, “I’ll build you something fun.” He has all but won, if the way Rhodey leans back in his chair is any indication.

“I heard Pepper is more into collecting debts in a less work-related manner these days,” Rhodey remarks, the innocence in his tone belied by the smirk he wears openly.

Tony reacts promptly by grimacing in mock-horror. “She’s mean. Makes me behave myself and be nice to other people.”

“And this is worth it?”

Steve would lie if he said he does not notice the way Tony glances at him before sharing a long, meaningful look with Rhodey. He cannot quite make sense of it but guesses the hesitation before Tony answers could mean all sorts of things.

“Yes,” Tony says, voice rather thick. He reaches quickly for his glass and gulps down half the wine in it in one go.

Steve is sure he is missing something here – _again_ – but Rhodey simply nods and keeps eating as if nothing happened.

“All right,” he then says, all business-like. “I’ll need you to look over my gun. And the next time you meet my superior, you won’t try if you can manage to get his head explode by making inappropriate comments.”

“You are no fun,” Tony declares grandly but does not sound unhappy with the deal. “But yes, I’ll do it. Happy now?”

“If you’re happy, I’m happy.” Rhodey smirks, then nods at Steve. “But let’s talk about something more interesting. Namely not Tony.”

Much later, when they are about to leave, Rhodey holds Steve back while Tony is already bouncing down the stairs, full of energy again, despite looking earlier like he needed a full week of sleep.

“You really like him, do you?” Rhodey asks, holding firmly onto Steve’s arm as if to make it clear that he will not let Steve leave before he has his answers.

Steve looks up in confusion. “I do,” he finally admits, because it is the truth. But, honestly, who would not? Tony is brilliant – by which he means more than his intellect. He is funny and surprisingly introspective if one knows how to look beyond the surface.

“It’s in the way you draw him,” Rhodey says, not explaining anything at all. When Tony calls impatiently from downstairs, he straightens. “I’ll help with this inane scheme of his, and if you need moral support, call me. But if you hurt him, it will be my pleasure to destroy you.”

“I – yes,” Steve stutters intelligibly, again fighting the urge to salute. Getting the army out of him seems impossible.

“Good night,” Rhodey says, smiling pleasantly.

Steve nods and flees, only to be greeted downstairs by Tony with a wide grin. “See? That wasn’t too bad. Rhodey likes you.”

In lieu of anything comprehensible to say, Steve just nods and gets into the car that is already waiting for them. He thinks Rhodey surely does not despise him but would not go any farther than that. Then again, keeping Tony safe must be a tedious task, so getting as far as he has must be an achievement of its own.

“You did good,” Tony says as the car starts moving, before snuggling into his seat, humming to himself and tapping his fingers on the seat between them. It takes effort not to reach out for Tony’s hand, but Steve is not sure it would be welcome – or seen as a reprimand for not being able to hold still.

He decides to take the silence as a good thing – if Tony is comfortable not saying anything that must mean Steve is at least one step up from commonly annoying people like the press – and turns to the window, taking in the brightly lit streets of New York passing by. He feels at home, and he is not sure if that is because he is back in the city he was born in, or because of the person he is here with. He is also not sure whether he really wants to know the answer to that, whether he is ready to deal with it.

When they stop in front of Becca’s house, Steve does not want to get out of the car and Tony too seems in no hurry to drive off.

“Thank you for the evening,” Steve says, feeling horribly inadequate. “You’re right, Rhodey _is_ a good man.”

“The best.” Tony grins but there is something wistful to it that Steve thinks might be due to loneliness. Because that is what Tony is: lonely. Despite the money and Stark Industries, despite having his head full to the brim with new ideas. He has two best friends, one of which spends most of his life out of the country and the other who is responsible for making him work and show up in time for all the social events Tony not so secretly hates.

Saying goodbye is actually really hard. Tony has a habit of disappearing when things become uncomfortable, but now they are trapped in the car, staring at each other waiting for something they cannot quite pinpoint. Steve wants to reach out, embrace Tony, maybe kiss him. But he does not.

It is still strange. Steve does not know their limits now. Tony never seems to stop flirting, talks almost constantly in innuendos, but he does that with everyone he meets, not exclusively with Steve. Despite that, he never makes a move anymore to take things further, never touches Steve, never goes beyond joking, and if Steve gets too close himself, Tony makes a diverting comment and dodges the attempt skilfully.

Despite the way their acquaintance started, they are not that anymore but mere business partners now. Ridiculous, the men who had sex only to never touch each other once they are married. Steve realizes he is somewhat out of line here thinking that. The marriage was a drunken mistake, not a conscious decision, and they hardly fit together. He should be glad they are going their separate ways. And yet.

But he cannot tell Tony that, does not have the words or the courage. Whatever could he say?

_I know the only reason you’re putting off getting rid of me is to get your father off your back, but could we maybe sleep together again while we’re conducting that other business?_

He does not think that would go over well. On the other hand, he cannot help but notice that Tony has not touched anyone else since they met. Not officially at least. There are no new scandals depicted in the evening news, no stilted lovers talking about their broken hearts, no parties gone wrong. There is no telling what Tony does in private but publically, at least, he seems to be faithful to Steve.

Immediately after thinking that, Steve curses himself. There is no such thing as being faithful to the stranger he picked up in a bar in Las Vegas. It must all be part of the act for Howard Stark, nothing more, and he better stop reading between lines that are not even there. He is too invested in this thing, in _Tony_ , already. He is sure even Bucky will give up on him if he comes out of this with a broken heart.

“Well,” Tony drawls, looking at some point on Steve’s left cheek, “I’m sure we can squeeze in the family dinner later this week. You up for it?”

Steve’s first instinct is to shake his head but he suppresses it forcefully. This is not something he will ever be ready for. Tony, too, looks uncharacteristically uncertain for a moment, and that is what puts a smile on Steve’s face.

“Sure,” he says, going so far as to shrug. “I don’t have any other plans.” He almost winces since he never told Tony he came to New York just for him.

_Don’t appear too clingy,_ Natasha had told him the night before they left. She is good with dishing out unwanted advice, but Steve guesses she has a point there. Thankfully, Tony does not comment on it.

“Good. I’ll call you for the details.”

And that is that. Steve truly has no more excuse to linger in the car, keeping Tony from driving home and getting on with his life. Taking care to keep his hands to himself, Steve opens the car door.

“Take care,” he says like the idiot he is and thankfully flees before he can see Tony’s reaction. Waving over his shoulder, he hurries towards the house without looking back, and keeps his eyes trained on the door even when he hears the car driving off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The results for my exam are here, and I did not only pass but am quite satisfied with how I did. (Also, holding that stupid certificate in hand finally made it real!) It seems I did not waste the first for months of this year.  
> And I'm back from vacation, which means I'm back to work. I'll have somewhat unsteady access to the internet for the next four months. (Read: Only on the weekends, cause I'll be living in another town during the week.) But I'll try not to let that influence the uploading.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think or if you want anything specific to read.  
> All the best!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank everyone for reading, and leaving kudos and comments!  
> Enjoy!

Four days later, Becca comes knocking on the door to the guestroom, looking at him with the same sceptical, slightly bewildered expression she always wore when they were children and Steve came home with a new set of bruises. They have never really been close, and he is sure she thinks of him as crazy, then and now. These days, at least, she treats him with a good deal more fondness, having come to see him as another brother instead of the boy who has suddenly, inexplicably come to live with them.

“You’ve got a guest,” she now says, tone incredulous.

“Tony,” Steve exclaims, sounding far too happy for it to be casual. Then he glances at the clock, realizing that there is still half an hour left until they were supposed to meet, so he adds, slightly sheepishly, “Is it?”

“So you do know him,” Becca mutters, glancing over her shoulder like Tony is hovering there, although Steve is certain that he is not. The genius would not have kept still for that long. “Do you want to tell me what a billionaire is doing on my doorstep?”

“Taking me to dinner?”

Steve is trying hard to suppress the somewhat nervous laughter rising in his throat. Putting it as simple as that makes it sound all the more insane. Although ‘ _We accidentally married and now we’re giving it a go_ ’ does not sound much better. Becca looks like a woman wondering whether it was the right thing to let him into her home.

“Taking _you_ to dinner?” she echoes him, putting the kind of emphasis on the words that has Steve blushing.

So what if he is not the smartest or richest or most handsome kind of guy. Does that mean he is somehow less worth, not enough for the likes of Tony Stark? He knows Becca does not think that way, having been born on the wrong side of the spectrum as well, so her apparent problem at comprehending the whole thing must lie solely with him.

Because he is a little shit – or so he has been repeatedly told by somewhat reliable sources like his friends, who are also little shits – he assumes an air of nonchalance and smiles at Becca. “Been meeting every day, despite all the work he should be doing. I guess he’s nervous because he’s introducing me to his parents tomorrow.”

It is a mistake, telling her like this, one that will end with Bucky telling her everything and her joining the ranks of people constantly teasing him. But it is worth it just for the momentary stunned expression on her face. He should probably tell Tony to send another NDA over. Wretched reality.

“Where is Tony?” he then asks before Becca can recover. If he has learned anything over the past weeks, it is that Tony does not like to be ignored.

“Downstairs,” Becca answers, still somewhat out of it, staring at him with the kind of intensity fit for wanting to dissect something to see how it works.

Steve, however, does not pay it any mind, but jumps to his feet at her answer. “Downstairs? Why didn’t you invite him up?”

He knows why. One cannot just let any stranger into one’s home, not even if they say they are Tony Stark. Still, it is not a good idea to leave Tony unsupervised for too long – or so Rhodey had advised him – lest he gets bored and builds a sentient toaster out of scrap parts that just happen to ‘lie around’.

The dinner with Rhodey made Steve wish all the harder that he had met Tony under less complicated circumstances, giving them more time to get to know each other properly. Rhodey must have a hundred stories to tell. All of which Steve would like to hear one day, if he were not an intruder and likely to be gone from their lives in no time at all.

Not listening to Becca’s sputtering, Steve makes his way to the door, buzzing Tony in before opening the door and waiting like an overexcited puppy for Tony to come into view.

“Steve,” Tony greets with a wide, honest smile, then clutches his heart dramatically, “here I thought you gave me the wrong address, sending me to some scary cat lady to break up with me for you.”

It is silly, but Steve cannot help laughing. Tony always manages to do that, easily.

“Sorry about that. It’s not the nicest neighbourhood.” He ignores Tony’s _no shit_ but grins slightly. Ushering Tony into the apartment, he closes the door, feeling giddy at the thought of inviting Tony into his home, although it is neither _his_ nor are they planning on staying long.

“So she thought someone would use my name to trick her into letting me up into her apartment to rob her blind?” Tony asks, looking around like he is trying to spot something worth that kind of trick. It does not take him long to give up. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Steve thinks that Tony coming here to see _him_ does not make sense either, but he refrains from saying that out loud. He likes meeting Tony too much to put a bitter spin on their evening so soon.

Turning them towards the guest room, he notices Becca has joined them, apparently over her shock. She eyes them standing together, her expression back to sceptical. She no doubt notices that there is at least a foot worth of distance between them at all times, that they neither kiss nor hug upon greeting each other. That they smile and smile but that Steve is holding back.

Trying to make his stance more relaxed, he says, “Tony, meet Becca, Bucky’s sister.”

He need not have worried about this moment, because the whole Barnes family is known for their kindness, even – or maybe especially – to strangers and strays, and Tony can be charming enough to melt most hearts.

Hand outstretched, Tony crosses the distance between him and Becca and they greet each other with minimal awkwardness.

“Are you as much trouble as your brother?” the genius then asks, making Steve very glad that Bucky is not home at the moment. He would stand no chance at all were those three to turn against him.

“I very much hope not,” Becca snorts, but her expression softens a bit.

“Oh, shoot.” Tony actually looks dejected for a moment, before glancing back at Steve with gleaming eyes. “I’ll have to make do with you then.”

Becca laughs, filling Steve with sudden longing again. Just why does all of this have to be fake?

“You got a room?” Tony asks, ripping Steve out of his lamenting before it can ruin his good mood. He holds up a bag he is carrying. “I got you something.”

Steve does not know how to answer. Are they doing that now, bringing each other gifts? Showing Tony his sketchbook is one thing. It did not cost him anything, and Tony had asked for it.

To avoid making a fool of himself, he nods down the hallway, then smiles at Becca before he walks off, silently begging her to give them some privacy. He can only imagine all the teasing he will have to endure once Bucky is back and she tells him everything that has happened. No need to give them any more ammunition.

She grins back at him in a not-quite-evil way, suggesting she will let him off the hook this once. Still, she clicks her tongue behind them before hollering shamelessly, “Leave the door open. I’ll not have you soil my bedsheets.”

“Yes, mum.” It is Tony who calls that, looking at Steve like he wants nothing more than to ignore that order. But Steve takes too long to grin back at him and the moment is over so quickly that he begins to doubt it has happened at all.

When he closes the door to the guestroom, the atmosphere is almost sombre, which pains Steve more than it has any right to. He is glad at least that the room is somewhat tidy, since they have only been here one week. Bucky and he are bunking together, and that has been known to have things descending into chaos sooner rather than later, but as it is he can offer Tony a seat which he can reach without stumbling over dirty clothes and scattered books. Tony still looks around with interest as if trying to gauge something about Steve just by taking in his temporary home.

As much as Steve likes talking to Tony, this is nice too. The silence between them is not uncomfortable. Less in any case as it will be once they return to talk about business. So Steve does not say anything, afraid of plunging them back into distances and careful traipsing around each other.

Tony, on the other hand, has no difficulties starting a conversation without making things awkward. “You got any more sketchbooks or paintings lying around?” he asks, sounding almost hopeful.

Steve regrets having to shake his head. He had thought coming back to New York would spur him into drawing more, but he has drawn the city from memory so often, the real thing barely compares and only reminds him of all that has changed. Everything he does draw has to do with Tony. He can barely admit that.

“Pity,” Tony says, and Steve has no difficulties believing that he means it. But then he straightens and is replaced by a much more scheming creature. “I brought you something to wear for tomorrow.”

Tony throws his bag on the bed before sitting down at the desk, leaning back like he expects to enjoy the show. Steve, however, is frozen for a long moment. The dinner. Of course. True to his word, Tony has arranged everything rather quickly. Barely four days have passed since their meeting with Rhodey and now there is only one day left until Steve will actually meet Tony’s parents. One day, a hundred questions, and a dozen ways how this can go wrong.

A feeling settles in Steve’s stomach that he does not care to analyse, so he makes his way over to the bed instead, tugging at the bag. A suit tumbles out that Steve can see immediately has to cost more than their rent for this month. Almost reverently he reaches out to touch the cloth, trail the stitching. It is dark blue and, even still folded, promises to be beautiful.

“I can’t wear that,” he blurts out, stumbling over the words. Because he truly cannot. The only formal clothing he has ever felt even remotely comfortable in was his army uniform, and even then he was glad when he could change back into combat slacks. This is too much. Too much money, too much glamour. Too real. He will have to lie enough during this dinner, without being stuffed in clothing that does not fit his character or life.

“You’ll have to,” Tony tuts, rolling his eyes. “Believe me, such things are important to my parents.”

Steve does believe him. Believing is not the problem.

“This is not me,” he tries to explain, despite knowing that it will not make sense for someone taught to wear the right mask for any imaginable setting. Steve only has himself and he has almost lost that one time too many already.

He realizes that he is being childish and difficult, making a problem out of a reasonable request and actually thoughtful gift. Tony knows his parents, knows his world. It is kind of him, really, to help Steve fit in better, if only for a night. But.

“I won’t feel like myself if I wear this,” he says.

Tony grimaces in a way that could mean he does not exactly want Steve to be himself for that meeting, but when he speaks his voice is gentle. “Formal wear is required. Show me what you’ve got instead.” He looks as unwilling to give in as Steve is, but at least he sounds open for negotiation.

All it does, however, is causing Steve to freeze _again_. He owns one suit, which he has used for all the meetings with the gallery. But it is a suit that he shares with Bucky. It does not fit either of them very well, it is not a modern cut or very well-fitting colour. But it was always enough for their needs. Steve would not have even brought it had Bucky not put it into his bag so often, Steve finally stopped putting it back into the wardrobe.

“Won’t we have dinner at your home?” Steve counters, despite not being particularly surprised that some people eat in suits even in their own home.

“Yeah,” Tony says, watching him closely and no doubt knowing what he is trying to do. “So?”

“I just –”

“Steve,” Tony interrupts him gently. “I’d appreciate if you’d simply wear the suit I brought, but maybe we can work with whatever you’ve got.”

When Steve gets his suit out of his bag – wrinkled despite being meticulously folded because he has stuffed it in with all the rest – Tony first laughs. When Steve does not join in, does not joke and says “Gotcha,” his face becomes blank, then pained.

“This –” he starts and trails off, holding the suit jacket in front of him. “This is not a suit,” he finally manages, looking like the jacket has personally offended him.

“It’s the best I’ve got,” Steve replies testily. He is aware that their wardrobe is not up to par with the likes of the Starks, but fine clothes have never been a priority when they were more occupied with trying not to starve. And in their lines of work it is more important what their hands can do instead of what they are wearing.

“Not anymore,” Tony reminds him, jerking his head at the bag on the bed.

“I wouldn’t know how to move in that,” Steve argues, hearing himself how ridiculous he sounds, grasping for excuses.

Tony merely looks at him in pity. “How about normally? It’s a piece of clothing. Not a metal armour. I’m not asking you to fly while shooting lasers out of your eyes.”

“It’ll sure feel like it,” Steve mutter under his breath, looking in something like horror between the two suits. Then, though, he straightens. He might be completely out of his league here, having to stay closely to Tony for confirmation about almost everything – which cutlery to use first during a fancy dinner, how to use the more than elaborate coffee machine in his office – but he will not give himself up completely.

“I can’t,” he says firmly. “It’s very nice of you, but –”

Tony waves his argument off, looking bored all of a sudden. “Your loss,” he drawls and throws the offending suit jacket onto the bed with his expensive gift, “don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you.” Then he vanishes out the door.

Steve guesses that means he has won, although it does not quite feel like a victory, because this situation bears so much potential for Tony to be right in the end.

For a long moment Steve is left to contemplate his choices in life, before Tony sticks his head back into the room and asks, “You coming? Our dinner reservation is in twenty.”

Feeling miserably close to laughing, Steve wonders how this has become his life so quickly, but he does not hesitate in following after Tony. He does not waste another glance on the suit.

 

* * *

 

When Steve comes back home that night, Bucky is still awake but already in bed. The suit has been taken completely out of the bag, jacket, shirt and trousers, and draped over Steve’s bed.

“That is one sweet suit,” Bucky whistles appreciatively when Steve stops cold in the doorway to stare at it. “Maybe I should get myself a sugar daddy too.”

“Tony’s younger than me,” Steve answers automatically, thus answering Bucky’s question of where he got it without him having to actually ask it. Not that there is really anyone else who would get Steve a suit, and he does not have the money to buy it himself. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I won’t wear it.”

“You – what?” Bucky props himself up in bed to better stare at Steve incredulously. “You don’t think Tony might have gotten you that thing for a reason?”

“Yes, so the shock won’t be as big for his parents,” Steve snaps rather petulantly. He is being unfair – to Tony, who only means well, and to Bucky too, who has no reason to think this is a bad thing.

“So what? Makes it easier on you too, yes?”

Tired of having the same argument again, he gives Bucky the same answer as Tony. “This isn’t me.” Bucky, at least, has to understand that. Then, to avoid going in any more circles, Steve backs right out of the door. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says is a tone that makes it clear that, when he comes back, he does not want to hear one more word about this suit.

And good friend that he is, Bucky goes farther than that. When Steve gets back to their room, the suit is gone from his bed, folded neatly and out of sight in its bag. Which stands next to Steve’s suitcase, maybe as a gentle reminder that he can change his mind.

Steve nods gratefully at Bucky but does not say anything as he gets into bed. It is nice to share a room again as they have done for years. They value the privacy of their own bedrooms at home, naturally, but Bucky’s breathing next to him always makes Steve feel safe.

Right before he turns off the light, they look at each other. This is as old a tradition as they have, predating the war and nightmares and the fear of darkness they brought. Even as children there was this last look. A way to make sure they are still together, that, once the light is off, the shadow next to them is still their best friend.

Another tradition is talking in the dark; stories, memories, dreams. Steve’s mother used to say that there are no lies in the dark. Which is not the truth, of course, they learned that early on, but they kept it on as a rule just for them. Once the light fades, neither of them will lie. Silences are permitted but when they speak, it must be the truth.

Which is why Steve does not bid Bucky goodnight when he plunges them into darkness. He wants to talk but does not know how to start. Thankfully, Bucky knows him well enough to notice.

“So, tomorrow then?” he asks, tone nonchalant to not put any pressure on Steve.

“Tomorrow,” Steve agrees, wondering whether it is better to get his panic out now instead of trying to suppress it. “What am I going to do?”

“Eat, I suppose,” Bucky says immediately, smirk audible in his voice. “Talk. Drink, but not too much, you know what happened last time.”

“Bucky!” Sadly, they do not have a rule against teasing, so Steve’s chiding is for naught.

“Do you remember how you met my mother for the first time?”

Steve does. Looking back it is as hilarious as it was mortifying then. Resigned, he says, “You brought me home after a fight. I was bleeding onto your doormat.”

It was only a scrape on the head and a busted lip, but it certainly looked bad enough to frighten poor Mrs. Barnes, finding a strange, scrawny creature at her front door who looked more like a hissing alley cat than a child of respectable parents. Still, she took him in, cleaned his wounds and invited him for dinner, telling him to come back with undeniable fondness in her voice. He has never gotten around to comprehending the typical Barnes’ craziness, he is just glad to have been allowed to become a part of it.

“Exactly. I advise you to not do this now.”

Despite himself, Steve has to laugh. “I don’t want to know what you think Tony and I get up to. I can barely imagine him in a fight.”

“Oh, but I’m sure he can get wild in bed.”

At that, Steve falls silent. For once not out of embarrassment but he is happy to let Bucky think that. It is more that he does not like to be reminded of how very much Tony and he are not having sex. Or kiss. Or touch at all.

Talking with Tony has become frightfully easy and Steve has become used so quickly to seeing Tony every day that he has no shortage of things to tell him. The atmosphere when they meet is always light. Hours fly by without either of them noticing. The only tension stems from Steve wanting to reach out but not daring to because it appears so easy for Tony to separate their marriage from their budding friendship. If that is what they have. Steve very much hopes so.

“Steve?” Bucky calls, pulling him back to the present. “What is bothering you?”

“I’m just really nervous I guess,” Steve says helplessly. “They’re his parents.”

In the other bed, Bucky rolls to his side, and despite the darkness Steve can feel his stare bear into him.

“I think you’re taking this whole business a bit far,” Bucky admonishes. “They’re your _fake_ husband’s parents.”

“I know.” And Steve _does_ , but pretending is too easy when he is with Tony. He wants it to be real so much – he can barely explain it. It is stupid and ridiculous, but a wonderful _what if_.

“But?” Bucky knows exactly what is wrong, knows Steve. As much as he likes teasing him, he is always there for the bad times too. “Listen, Stevie. No matter what their surname is, no matter how much money they have, they are still people. And people _like_ you.”

Out of habit more than anything else, Steve protests. “They don’t.”

Also out of habit, Bucky laughs. “Of course they do,” he argues, “what isn’t there to like? You’re easy on the eye, you’re kind, courageous. You have only good things to say about others. If you’d run late for something you’d still stop to help some grandma carry her groceries home and rescue her cat out of a tree on the way.”

Steve smiles slightly, bashful, as he always does when someone compliments him. “I doubt they’re the kind to be impressed by that.”

“Everybody loves a Samaritan,” Bucky says dismissively. “Especially if associating with them can help with their own image without them having to do anything themselves.”

For a moment, Steve is inclined to argue that he is not a Samaritan. He is not the good guy his friends always make him out to be. He has his flaws and he has made mistakes. But that is an argument they have had too often, and the truth is, Steve tries to be as good as he can. Sometimes, trying is all one can do.

Bucky’s assessment of the Starks on the other hand might just as well prove to be true. A weapons manufacturer can always do with good press.

“Tony does not like them very much,” Steve then offers, unsure why he says it. He cares for Tony, naturally, but he will likely not able to save his relationship with his parents, no matter whether they despite him or not.

“So, are you afraid that they won’t like you – which might not be a problem after all if they are at odds with their son anyway – or that they will like you better than Tony, thus making things between the two of you more difficult?”

Steve does not have an answer to that but Bucky does not really expect him to. After a moment of silence, he reaches out across the gap between their beds and pats Steve’s shoulder in the dark.

“It may sound rather cliché, but just be yourself, Stevie.” He sighs, searching for the right words. “You’re a good man. They will either like you or they won’t. From what I’ve heard, they might be determined to dislike you no matter what you do. So don’t trouble yourself with it. Eat their fancy food and be there for Tony. The rest doesn’t matter.”

With that he turns to the other side and for a minute all that is audible is the rustling of them trying to find a comfortable position.

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve then says into the darkness

“For giving the best advice?” There is a smile in Bucky’s voice that belies the teasing tone.

“Yeah. That and –” Steve trails off before starting again. “For coming back to me.”

The seldom talk about the war, although it is ever present in everything they do, every encounter they have with every person. It changed them. And still, against all improbability, they came out of it together.

“We promised,” Bucky says simply, as if the world lets them keep all their promises. “Till the end, we said. The war was not our end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!  
> All the best to you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. This chapter's a bit shorter, since I'm flooded with work.  
> Enjoy!

Rhodey picks him up at Becca’s home the next evening. He has a much less ostentatious car than Tony but he is also dressed to the nines. He takes one look at Steve’s ill-fitting suit and starts snickering.

“Oh, tonight will be fun,” he says by way of greeting. Upon noticing Steve’s horrified expression, he amends, “Well, not for you. And not for Tony. Actually, not for me or his parents either. None of us will have fun tonight. But we’ll laugh about it in a couple years.”

The first thing that comes to Steve’s mind is that he hopes he will still be around in a couple years’ time. Then he reflects on Rhodey’s words and cannot help but ask, “I thought they like you.”

The question only serves to set Rhodey off laughing again. “I’m not sure they like anyone, really. Not even themselves.”

“Sounds like a sad way to live one’s life.”

Shrugging, Rhodey pulls out of his parking spot and starts driving. “They’ve got money and a job, so I’d say there are worse lives. But they are not happy, no.”

“Strange to think that Tony could come from such people.”

Rhodey glances at Steve before putting his eyes firmly back on the street. It is enough, however, to show that he is frowning. “I wouldn’t necessarily call Tony happy,” he then says with quite a bit of reluctance. Although Steve cannot tell whether that is because Rhodey does not want to share that with Steve or because he does not know how to put his thoughts into words.

“He’s not?” Steve asks but the words end up in a monotone, making them more of a statement.

If he thinks about it, there is some truth to it. Tony has a lot of expectations riding on him. His father’s company, his own genius, the public’s scrutinizing eye. He certainly knows how to pretend being happy. But Steve knows how to pretend being brave too, which does not change the fact that the war left him a mess.

“Tony is difficult, as you have no doubt noticed by now,” Rhodey says, something final in his tone that suggests he is not ready to discuss this with Steve. He sounds genial, nonetheless, which is a trait Steve has to admire, being firm but not offending. He, in turn, has always been someone to jump right into battle.

“Any last advice?” Steve asks, changing the topic. He somehow manages to keep his nervous desperation from bleeding into the words. Maybe watching Natasha for years has taught him a thing or two after all.

“Be yourself,” Rhodey says, just like Bucky did, “you’re not good enough an actor to pull off anything else and they’re good at picking out lies. They do it the whole day, really.” He shrugs, almost like he wants to mask a shiver. “Business and society. Terrible mess, I tell you.”

“And you don’t mind coming?”

Taking a long time to answer, Rhodey stares at the road. “They tolerate me. Howard likes soldiers.” If the way he says that is any indication, this is not true the other way around. “When I’m home Tony often asks me to come. Takes some of the pressure off him.”

“Why is it this way?” Steve asks, unsure how to phrase it, “Has something happened between them?”

Chuckling, Rhodey shakes his head. “I don’t think Howard ever wanted children,” he says in a tone suggesting that it would have been better for any child had that desire been fulfilled, “and the experience didn’t improve when he got one nonetheless.”

 They arrive at a wrought iron gate, giving Rhodey a short break from Steve’s questioning, since Steve finds he does not have any words left he can try to press out through his suddenly constricted throat. The whole time on the driveway, he fights the panic rising in his gut.

It is too late now to back out. They are here, Tony’s parents are waiting. More importantly, _Tony_ is waiting.

“Ready?” Rhodey asks, his lips forming a rather pitiful smile.

“No,” Steve shoots back immediately but gets out of the car without hesitation. If he lingered, he knows, he would never manage at all.

Tony meets them in the foyer of the mansion, although Steve has to take a double look to recognize him. This is the Tony for the press, artfully arranged hair, smirk at the ready, dressed impeccably. It has Steve wanting to turn around and leave immediately. Well, that and to keep staring forever. It is true that he prefers _his_ Tony, the private, kind Tony who does not put on too much of an act, but this Tony looks as well as he did the night in Las Vegas. It has some very inappropriate thoughts flooding Steve’s mind, made even worse because this kind of thing appears forbidden between them now.

“Is Howard in that bad a mood?” Rhodey asks, saving Steve from making a fool of himself by staring speechlessly ahead.

Tony does not seem to think his best friend’s question strange, for he merely shrugs. “He’s not happy, sure, and I do want to keep things from deteriorating further.”

Steve feels like there is something he should say or do to reassure Tony, but he is more than aware that he has nothing to offer, that he does not fit in here and Tony is right to worry.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks instead, thinking he could make up some kind of emergency to get them all out of this evening.

“As sure as I’ll ever be.”

Steve is glad that Tony does not ask him back. He can hide behind bravado when it is Rhodey he is facing, but he still wants to avoid disappointing Tony, and tonight already threatens to be one big disappointment.

Watching them, Rhodey crosses his arms in front of him as if that is enough to keep all the madness at a safe distance. “For the record, I still think this is a monumentally bad idea.”

Flashing him a too wide smile, Tony shrugs carelessly. “You say that about all my brilliant plans at first. But your protest is duly noted.”

“And will be ignored?” Rhodey asks, raising one eyebrow when Tony nods happily.

“Naturally.” Then Tony turns towards Steve, making him almost flinch under the insincere casualness, “But don’t worry, Steve, dear old Howard will love you. You’re all he ever wanted in a son but never got.”

Now Steve does flinch, although Tony does not seem to notice it. And before anyone can answer, Tony straightens and makes his way inside, expecting them to follow after him. Steve holds Rhodey back for a moment.

“What does he mean by that?” he asks, not at all reassured.

“Just what he said, I’m afraid,” Rhodey says, not bothering with nonchalance. There is a lot of old anger buried there. “Howard is not an easy character to please and Tony has never quite fit his expectations. He wanted his son to be perfect. But nobody is.”

The first question would be what perfection even is. One might think that, for a smart man owning a tech company, getting a son who is a tech _genius_ might come very close, especially one who manages to navigate their glamorous world rather well too.

“But Tony is brilliant,” Steve protests, shutting his mouth with a click when he realizes how naïve he sounds.

Rhodey looks at him strangely like he is not sure whether he should believe Steve is telling the truth or what he maybe hopes to gain from saying that. When he speaks, however, none of that is audible in his voice.

“In my opinion, Howard feels threatened by Tony. He is good at what he is doing and he stomped SI from the ground, but to Tony everything involving tech is as natural as breathing. I can imagine that this would be intimidating.”

“But grossly unfair.”

This, Rhodey answers with a small smile, clearly amused at how easy Steve is trying to make this matter. “I never said I agreed with him. In fact, we’ve had an argument or two over the years. Not that it changed anything.”

“So,” Steve says slowly, unsure whether he should dare to ask, “why would he like me?”

“What isn’t there to like?” Rhodey chuckles quietly, serious but not quite happy about it. “You’re polite, well-liked without the advantage of money, loyal. You fought for your homeland, you’re dedicated to making the world a better place. In short, you’re what people like Mr. Stark hope to convey to the public they are.”

As it turns out, Tony must have told Rhodey quite a number of things about Steve. How else would he paint such a picture of him, if not from Tony’s blatant exaggerations?

“I’m not quite sure I agree with your assessment,” Steve says somewhat stiffly.

With a rather wry expression, Rhodey shrugs. “Which only adds to the appeal, believe me.” Nodding at the door, he adds, “But we should go in now. If we leave Tony alone with his father for too long, they’ll already be in a shouting match before the first course.”

Rhodey starts moving but Steve catches his arm, holding him back for a moment longer. “If it is this bad, why does Tony keep going back?”

“They are his parents,” Rhodey answers sadly. “I don’t think we ever stop hoping to make our parents proud, do we?”

 

* * *

 

The Tony that waits for them the dining room is yet another, completely different person from the man Steve does not mind being married to, and perhaps his least favourite yet. And that is taking into account the arrogant playboy every tabloid loves writing about.

Here, Tony loses the spring in his step while his back becomes rigid. He looks ready for a fight. Not only expecting it, really, but just waiting to lose. He stands in front of his father knowing he will be judged and that the verdict will not be in his favour.

This does not help in alleviating Steve’s fears. Upon taking his first step into the dining room at Rhodey’s side, he also feels instantly, horribly underdressed. He does not need to look at Tony to know he is smirking at him, does not want to give him the satisfaction of reacting to the _I told you so_ definitely shining in his eyes.

They all are wearing fine evening clothes; impeccable suits, glittering dress, signet ring and jewellery. Very briefly, Steve longs for the suit he has buried deep in his bag before dismissing the thought with considerable effort. He is still determined to stay as true to himself as this impossible situation allows, even if that means looking like a gardener next to the high lord.

“Mother, father,” Tony says very formally, glancing at Steve momentarily although his eyes betray no emotion at all, “may I introduce Steve Rogers.”

Steve is strangely glad that Tony does not add a description of whatever it is they supposedly have together. Like this, he can almost imagine being invited as a friend instead of a possible son-in-law. He has never been good with illusion, but if he wants to stay in Tony’s world, he thinks he might have to get used to it.

“Steve,” Tony turns to him with an unreadable expression, although there is something sad to it like he expects Steve to bow out any minute now, “these are my parents, Maria and Howard Stark.”

They nod at each other but Tony’s parents do not get up, do not offer their hands. It is incredibly awkward – made only worse by another man entering the dining room, wearing some kind of livery, who proceeds to direct them to their seats, pulling out their chairs in turn. First for Tony, at his father’s right hand side, then Steve and lastly Rhodey.

Steve gets seated across from Tony, far enough apart that there cannot be any secret conversation, no exchange of information without anyone being the wiser. At least Rhodey stays next to him, still very much a stranger but one who will probably have his back.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony says brightly, honest warmth echoing in his voice.

It has Steve confused for a moment, because Jarvis, or so he thought, is supposed to be Tony’s AI, not a real blood-and-flesh man. They look at each other with an affection that, as far as he can tell, Tony lacks in regard to anything else in this house, especially his parents. So he might have just taken one thing he loved about his life here and implemented it in his new one the only way he knows how.

Drinks are served while they sit in complete silence, listening to the clinking of glass or dissecting their guest with neutral and yet somewhat cold stares. Steve wonders whether it is too soon to call it a night.

“Mr. Rogers, was it?” Mr. Stark asks in a wholly unpleasant tone once Jarvis has left the room. He looks Steve up and down, assessing, and obviously finding him wanting, for a sneer enters his features, which remains even when he nods imperiously at Rhodes, turning his attention completely to the other man.

“Yes,” Steve says, keeping his demeanour as jovial as he can, “but call me Steve.” For a very brief moment, he thinks about stating his rank, almost desperate to make a good first impression, if only because this meeting is important for Tony – although for all the wrong reasons. In the end, he keeps silent, thinking that him being an artistic lowlife might be better than an artistic lowlife who quit the army.

Mrs. Stark looks almost ephemeral, like a ghost filling the space next to her husband. She is pale and tired but keeps her back straight and her face interested. Steve has no reason to think she cares for him any more than Mr. Stark, but he appreciates the effort. From what he has gathered until now, it is her job to keep up appearances while her husband takes care of the business end.

He recognizes Tony in his father’s face and his mother’s smile, but neither of them seems quite _real_ enough to produce a son like Tony who has so much presence that it sometimes takes away all the air out of the room.

“Tony has told us about you only this week,” Mr. Stark says, gripping a glass that Steve is sure is not filled with water. His words seem to lift some of the pressure off them, like they have all just waited for him to speak, to set the tone for the evening, which is not any kinder than their introductions.

Steve is unsure what to answer. Shall he offer an excuse? Perhaps that he wanted Tony all to himself first, that he was intimidated by the name?

Thankfully, Tony takes over before he has come to a decision. “And I also told you that we are taking things slow,” he explains, voice cheerful if a bit terse. “You know that the press can be overwhelming.”

At that, Steve startles. He has not wasted a thought on the press. What if Tony wants them to give a statement later, give their pretence a sort of validity that a simple dinner in private cannot?

As if reading Steve’s mind, Mr. Stark reminds them, “It’s part of our life.”

“But not of his,” Tony argues calmly.

Mr. Stark harrumphs in a way that seems to say that a life untouched by public interest is hardly worth living, but refrains from adding anything.

“What do you do?” Mrs. Stark asks, gentle enough but obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Steve, meanwhile, throws a panicked glance at Tony. They really should have rehearsed this. Should he lie? Anything would be better than telling these people what he actually does with his life, right? He is so far removed from their way of living. All the glamour and charities and running a multi-billion-dollar-company. He is sitting in a mansion, served dinner by a butler – he is so far out of his depths. And, he realizes, that is painfully obvious, no matter what he says or does.

“I’m studying art, ma’am,” he then says, as confidently as he can. He is not ashamed of who he is or where he has come from, and he will be damned if he lets himself be intimidated. “I’m actually being represented in a gallery at home next month.”

“Maria, please,” she says, her expression never changing, although her husband scowls at her side. “And that is wonderful. It is so hard these days to find recognition.”

It would be easy to resent her for that, because what would a woman like her knowing about hard life? But she sounds earnest, if somewhat absentminded, and he can appreciate the effort she is making, especially with Mr. Stark continuing to glare at him like he is not sure how he even made it past the front door, much less into the dining room with them.

“I have high hopes for this exposition,” he agrees easily, grateful to have at least one tentative ally.

Tony watches them, something almost like a smile tugging at his lips when their eyes meet, but keeps out of it. As unfazed as he looks, Steve has the distinct feeling that he wants to be here even less than Steve himself.

“James,” Mr. Stark talks right over his wife, cutting her off as she has her mouth already open to answer Steve. “Are you still with the army?” His tone is slightly less exasperated than when talking to Steve, even though the question is not meant as part of polite conversation.

“Yes, sir” Rhodey answers promptly like this is part of some ritual, “and I’ve got no plans to leave.”

He talks with the sort of pride Steve has had once too, right up until everything went to hell. And Steve does not long for these days anymore. Life was easier then, perhaps, but they were still on a one-way-street that could not end with all of them coming home whole and happy. Better to have that fall already behind them, no matter how hard it was.

“My, listen to that, Anthony,” Mr. Stark says, tone turning ugly in a completely effortless way, “some people do possess an ounce of discipline.”

A shot silence follows, in which Steve holds his breath, completely taken aback. What is that supposed to mean? Tony is as unsuited for life in the Army as it would be a waste of his talents. Surely Mr. Stark does not want to suggest otherwise.

The funny thing is, Steve does not think that Mr. Stark cares much for Rhodey, one way or another, but hearing him talk like that, everyone seems a step up compared to his own son. Except for the wayward artist he dragged home, of course, but that is to be excepted.

“Steve was actually in the army too,” Rhodey announces, probably thinking it might be helpful, only that it allows for a myriad of questions Steve does not want to answer.

And Mr. Stark, naturally, reacts as feared. “Was?” he asks sharply, turning his hard gaze back on Steve who has not minded being ignored at all.

Swallowing, Steve involuntarily straightens his shoulders and says, almost in monotone, “Shortly before the end of our last tour my best friend was grievously injured, so I went home to take care of him.”

Mr. Stark is not impressed, that much is obvious. He sneers as he takes in Steve another time, reforming his opinion into something worse than before. All it does, however, is that Steve wants to stick out his chin and say something along the lines of, _And in which war have_ you _served? What sort of courage do you possess, if you cannot even keep up a civil tone with your guest and your own family?_

“He is in one of our trial programs for the new prosthetics,” Tony pipes up just in time to keep things from getting worse, sending Steve a soothing glance that probably means he is trying to bring the topic to an end as quickly as it has come up. Noticing that, Rhodey frowns apologetically. The whole thing is so ridiculous that Steve almost bursts out laughing.

“Those programs that promise free medical care and a perfectly fine prosthetic for nothing in return?” Mr. Stark asks, sneer never leaving his lips. “Your moronic scheme if I remember correctly.”

Tony closes his eyes for a very brief moment, in which his coolly polite expression never wavers, before inclining his head in what seems a gesture of accepting the blame. Although what for Steve is not quite sure. For making sure that prostheses are available for the people who need it but cannot afford it? For trying to improve his designs? For designing trials instead of just thrusting his product off to the first buyer?

Listening to Howard Stark makes Steve incredibly furious. No father should talk like this to and about his son, especially not if he is trying so very hard. His feelings on the matter must be rather easy to read on his face because something like cold amusement enters Mr. Stark’s eyes. Steve is sure they will come to blows any minute now, before even the second course is served, and he is sorry for Tony but he has never liked bullies and will not sit by silently to watch one at work. But when he opens his mouth to voice his opinion, to defend the genius against his father, Tony shoots him a warning glare even as Rhodey touches his leg in a calming and yet invisible gesture.

Swallowing his angry words, Steve concentrates on breathing. In turn, Tony takes the opportunity to face his father, distracting him with a conversation about some project or another, giving Steve the chance to calm down by taking him out of the focus of attention.

As they talk, Steve hears _Obadiah,_ and _deadline_ and, throughout all of it, _boy_. Steve does not remember his father, but his mother always used his name with utmost care, filled with love and a certain tenderness he will forever associate with late night conversations and early morning tea. A parent’s love is supposed to be something unshakeable. Not this weary thing between Tony and his father. No one else at the table seems very perturbed by it, however, or at least not very surprised: Tony takes it in stride, Mrs. Stark avoids looking at her husband, and Rhodey keeps his face neutral, save for the odd frown and meaningful glance at his friend. 

With Mr. Stark out of the equation, conversation flows more easily. Mrs. Stark is the queen of small talk and questions that avoid uncomfortable silences from rising. The food, now that Steve has a chance to taste some of it with his nervousness somewhat lessened, is excellent if rather elaborate. He will always prefer home-cooked, traditional meals over this, but it could be infinitely worse. At least he does not make a fool of himself by using the wrong cutlery or proving ignorant as to what some of the dishes are.

Theirs is not a happy evening, not filled with laughter or exciting topics, but it passes more or less unhindered, and when their dessert is eaten, Steve almost sighs in relief. Almost over, he thinks. He has survived until now. Only that is when Mrs. Stark looks at him in expectation, saying something he has not at all expected.

“You’ll be staying for the night, of course.”

_Of course_ , Steve thinks and barely keeps himself from shaking his head. “Thank you,” he says and wants to refuse, when Tony catches his gaze and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he protests nonetheless, although not as determined as he could have.

“But you aren’t.” Mrs. Stark is very adept at sounding like she means the things she says, even while her husband looks close to throwing Steve out himself. “It’ll spare you the journey back and you can spend some more time with Tony. I know he works very hard.”

It could be Steve’s imagination, but Mrs. Stark might just be trying to help their relationship along. Or it was a jab at her husband, who must be very busy with the company too. Either way, her comment leaves Tony rolling his eyes and Mr. Stark scowling not very inconspicuously. Under the table, Rhodey nudges him with his foot.

All of that taken together means that Steve has no real choice at all. “You’re right,” Steve smiles at Mrs. Stark, “thank you for your hospitability.” He wonders what Bucky will have to say to all of this, knowing he will never let him live this down.

Mr. Stark appears to take this as a conclusion to their evening and stands. “Come by the office tomorrow,” he tells Tony, before turning to his wife, “I’ll be down in the workshop.” Almost in passing, he addresses his guests with a mere, “Rhodes, Rogers,” before he is gone, stopping only shortly at the side board to refill his whiskey glass.

In theory, Steve should be glad he does not have to suffer through prolonged goodbyes, full of disapproving glares and not quite hidden jabs at his chosen profession. But his heart goes out to Tony and his mother, living with a man like this, incapable of keeping things light-hearted for even the time of a dinner.

“I will take my leave too,” Mrs. Stark says into the silence following her husband’s sudden departure. “It was very nice meeting you, Steve.”

Steve does not believe her. Well, he believes her feelings towards him are indifferent, much like she treats her own son, but she is making an effort at least to keep things civilised.

This time she does offer her hand, a thin, fragile thing, looking like it is made for trembling. Steve accepts it with a smile, rising to his feet as he holds it. “Likewise, ma’am.” It is not even much of a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a comment to tell me what you think.  
> All the best!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words and kudos! You really lighten up my days.

“My,” Rhodey says when they are alone, “this could have gone worse.”

For the first time this night, he allows his shoulders to relax, does not quite sag in his place but does not look like he is ready to stand at attention at a moment’s notice. He also smiles wryly, which can only be borne from relief.

“Could it?” Steve cannot help but ask. He feels exhausted, much more than a simple dinner should cause him to, although Mr. Stark’s mere presence requires everyone to keep up their guard.

“Oh yes,” Tony says, voice full of nonchalance, like it is not his family they are discussing, like he is used to disaster where they are involved. “Dear old Howard was neither completely drunk nor did he start shouting or throwing things. It’s almost like he approves of you.”

He gets up and walks over to the side board, picking up the tumbler to sniff at his father’s whisky before he brings it back to the table. Filling his water glass with a generous amount, he drowns it in one go, and refills it before offering some to the others. Steve shakes his head, while Rhodey accepts graciously.

“Or he wants you to behave and do your work as you’re told,” Rhodey argues, “so he decided not to affront you today.” He takes the tumbler out of Tony’s hand afterwards. It feels like this is as practiced as their handling of Mr. Stark between them.

Tony grimaces at the loss of alcohol within easy reach and clings to his glass in a way that shows he will not give that up too, slouching over it as if it is the only thing that keeps him upright at all. “I doubt conscious decision has much to do with how he usually acts.” A small sneer tugs on his lips, which he washes away with whiskey.

“Anyway,” Rhodey says with forced cheer, likely noticing the way Steve eyes both them and the door, wearing a very unhappy expression. “Don’t let us end the evening on a bad note. Your plan did not blow up completely.”

Tony seems to take the hint, for he straightens, smoothing out his expression, and grins lazily. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he drawls, toasting Rhodey.

“But did they believe it?” Steve has to ask. Apart from being awkward, this was not at all like he imagined a meeting with possible in-laws. Even if they did disapprove of Steve, he would have expected them to be a bit more engaged. “They didn’t ask any questions and Tony and I did not exactly behave –”

“Like a couple?” Tony chuckles and even Rhodey grins at the mental image. “They wouldn’t have believed us one bit if we had. Open displays of emotions are not actually the Stark way.”

Except for negative ones, Steve can imagine. Although that, too, only where no one can see who would talk about it later.

“In fact,” Rhodey adds before taking a sip of his drink, “they probably think Tony carefully instructed you to not act the lovesick fool. Which should have worked in your favour.”

“If you say so.” Steve looks away, embarrassed. He is so far out of his depth here, and the other two making it sound so simple does not help matters at all. He comes from a very emotional family. His mother had never hidden his love for him and the Barnes have always been loud and happy and wild, and he had been included easily despite not sharing any blood with them. Hiding all of that away or, as he fears, not having it in the first place, must be such a sad life, lacking many of the things Steve believes make it worth living.

“You did good,” Rhodey tries to reassure him. It does not work.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Steve mutters, now eyeing the whiskey speculatively. But he has always been of the opinion that alcohol does not solve any problems but only makes new ones. As proven by the situation he is now in, no matter the good things it brought too.

“Mum likes you,” Tony says, voice almost incredulous like that is a feat hardly ever accomplished. “And Howard won’t care one way or another as long as you don’t keep me from meeting his deadlines.”

_Mum_ and _Howard_ , Steve thinks, hurting for Tony. Now that he has met them to compare them to all the random pieces of information he has heard by now, he is not too surprised, although he does wonder how Tony’s relationship with is mother is away from prying eyes, whether she ever gets warmer than this.

“Why does she want me to stay?” Steve asks. That, most of all, does not make any sense to him. He is a stranger. More so, a stranger that their son brought in, who does not have the best track record with romances, if the tabloids are to be believed.

“It might be a statement to Howard,” Tony shrugs, then elaborates when Steve looks like he does not understand, “that she won’t oppose him in public but that she doesn’t approve of his behaviour either.”

“Which means?”

“It’s her way of apologizing to you and giving us her blessing. She’s inviting you into her home.” That last thing is important, the way Tony intonates it. He may not view this as home anymore, but it is hers and she has taken Steve in, if only for the night.

Rhodey nods as if any of this makes actually sense. “It also gives you an excuse to spend some time together that Howard can’t protest too loudly. Maria has essentially bought Tony a night free of work. With you.”

If that is approval, Steve does not want to know what open _dis_ approval would look like. Although it could always be as apathetic as this. Who knows with these people, who always have to put on a show in public, lest something smudges their reputation. Well, Howard Stark’s reputation has taken quite a hit tonight where Steve is concerned.

“All right.” Rhodey drowns his remaining whiskey and makes to stand. “I’ll leave you to it. Wouldn’t want to steal any more of your night.” He grins but falters when he looks at Tony, prompting Steve to turn around too. For the fraction of a minute, Tony looks panicked but his expression smoothens over so quickly that Steve is sure he must have imagined it.

“Do you want a coffee before you go?” Tony asks, voice nothing if not cheerful, “I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep in the car.”

That is when Steve realizes that this is about him. About them being together in Tony’s childhood home, under his parents’ watchful eyes, who might not care much about what he does but a lot about how it reflects on them. Getting Rhodey to come to the dinner was not just to make it easier on Steve but to give Tony some much needed support. Rhodey had said something of that kind before they went into the dining room, but now it is obvious how much it was needed. If Steve were not right in the middle of this mess, he would find it endearing.

Rhodey, who surely knew Tony’s intentions all along, gently shakes his head. Several unspoken things pass between the two friends before Tony nods somewhat resigned but not too surprised.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Rhodey says as they make their way out of the dining room and into the foyer. Which is much less intimidating now that Steve has survived the night and can look out for beauty again instead of expecting possible traps to stumble in at every corner. Turning to Steve, he adds, “Maybe we can meet again under better circumstances."

The smile comes unbidden to Steve’s face but it is honest. “I’d like that.”

Tony and Rhodey embrace again, much more sombre than the first time Steve witnessed it but no less heartfelt. He is filled with sudden longing for Bucky, who surely waits for him across town, and who could maybe help to bring some order to the chaos in Steve’s mind. But all of that has to wait for tomorrow.

Then Rhodey is gone and Steve is alone with Tony in the grand foyer. When they look at each other, Steve has to hide a rueful grin. Being alone together is not something he should regret. In fact, he looks forward to it each time they meet. Nothing changes just because they are now in Tony’s parents’ house. Only, of course, that Steve is afraid that their time is now surely, steadily running out.

“Let’s go, yes?” Tony asks, ripping Steve out of his reverie.

“Yes,” Steve says, steeling himself, although he does not quite know what for. It is only a house. And it is only Toy.

Tony leads Steve up two stairs and down a confusing number of hallways, lined by many identical looking doors. Steve feels like they could have housed his whole neighbourhood in this mansion, and still Tony walks with the confidence of someone knowing every crook and niche. When he stops in front of a door, Steve could not tell how to get back to the entrance hall. Without fanfare, he pushes in, leaving Steve to follow – who manages to go as far as the doorstep before stopping cold.

He supposes the room is tastefully done, chestnut furniture, red draperies and accents, but it is just so grand, leaving him to feel out of time, out of place.

“The bathroom is just through there.” Tony does not notice any awkwardness while Steve can only stare. The room is bigger than the first apartment he shared with Bucky. “My room is just across the hall. So if you need anything, just knock.”

“We won’t stay together?” Steve asks when he finds his voice, and hates how small he sounds.

“Don’t worry,” Tony waves dismissively, like he wants nothing more than to leave Steve behind, “they won’t notice, and Jarvis is on our side.”

It is a good thing that Tony thinks Steve only asks to assure their charade holds up, instead of the truth – that he is terribly afraid of getting lost here, of stumbling across Tony’s parents only for them to find out they have been lying all along.

“Are you going to show me your room?” Steve is just fishing for more time, all to not get left behind in this place full of effortless riches and a bed that is likely too soft for him to find any sleep, being used to worn-out mattresses and less comfortable surroundings.

Tony cocks his head to the side, watching him closely like he knows exactly what Steve is thinking. “It’s not any different from this one,” he then says slowly, unsure how to react, “although I think it’s in blue.”

“You think?” Steve echoes weakly. Even if Tony does not spend much time at home anymore, he should remember the colour of his room.

“Oh,” Tony’s face brightens as he realizes what is going on, “I’m sleeping in a guestroom too. My former room is probably just as messy as I left it years ago. It’s also one floor above my father’s room, so I don’t go there anymore.”

What a world, in which a whole floor is not enough between a son and his parents. Steve does not know what to say to that, so he remains silent, staring at the giant bed he is not supposed to share with anyone.

“Do you want me to give you a tour?” Tony then asks, sounding strangely hesitant.

They must make an odd pair, standing aimlessly in this room, which arguably does not fit either of them.

“Of the house?” Steve shudders involuntarily, he is already going to have nightmares of the mere vastness of this place. “No, thanks.”

“Of my room,” Tony corrects gently. Then, as if to give himself no time to reconsider, he grabs Steve’s sleeve and pulls him back out into the hall. Steve follows without protest, all to escape the prospect of being alone for just a bit longer.

They walk quietly as if there is any danger of disturbing Tony’s parents, but Steve is rather grateful for the chance to bring order to his thoughts without having to give up on Tony’s presence. That is ridiculous for a grown man but he cannot help it. Everything they are doing here is ridiculous.

Funnily enough, it is now Tony hesitating on the doorstep, but then he snorts to himself and mutters something Steve cannot quite hear, before going in.

Tony’s room is – as promised – a mess. The bed is made meticulously and there are no clothes lying around, but other than that it is like a bomb exploded. Papers litter every available surface; the desk is overflowing, the floor is a maze due to several hazardously stacked piles of books. It reminds Steve of his own room when he is on an art binge. But instead of drawings the papers scattered here hold formulas and technical sketches and spiking shorthand. Additional to that, however, there are tools strewn about, half-built machines Steve cannot hope to make sense of.

As chaotic as it is, the room holds a kind of beauty that, in turn, makes Tony appear more beautiful too.

Then, naturally, Tony has to ruin the mood. “I haven’t stepped a foot in here for over a decade,” he says in a sober tone, looking around with mild interest, like a stranger himself.

“You what? Why?” Steve sputters, ripping his attention away from the veritable well of new things he could learn about Tony that is right there in front of him, because Tony sounds strangely vulnerable even if he does not look the part.

“The usual,” Tony rolls his eyes, “I had an argument with my father. So, dramatic little shit that I was, I packed my things and left for MIT in the morning.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen. Don’t look like that,” smiling bitterly, Tony makes his way into the room and lets himself fall onto his bed, “everyone told me I shouldn’t waste my time here when MIT would take me with open arms. Guess no one cared enough to realize how toxic such an environment is for a fourteen-year-old boy who is too smart for his own good and has the stupid habit of needing to prove himself to anyone giving him even the pretence of attention.”

Tony does not look at Steve and keeps his voice in a curious mix of monotone and bitter. He tells his tale like he has no place in it, like it is something he heard but never cared about. It breaks Steve’s heart because he has no difficulties imagining it. His Tony, the one eager to build, sporting ready smiles and a lot of passion for what he loves doing, thrown into a world so much bigger than him, caring for him less even than his father does because there he is just a name that promises prestige, not a wide-eyed boy full of wondrous ideas. Steve wonders whether it was there that the man clinging to a glass of whiskey while throwing out fake smiles and nonchalance was born, or whether that is older. That brings up the question how much more of this toxic world Tony can swallow before he becomes the man he pretends to be so often already. How much before there is no going back?

“How did it turn out?” Steve asks, feeling horribly inadequate. He stands in the middle of the room, utterly helpless. He feels like he is in a graveyard. What happened to all of these ideas lying around here carelessly when Tony left? Did he have copies somewhere? Did he reconstruct them from memory? Or did he write them off as casualties, not worth the effort of coming back here, back into Howard’s kingdom?

“Read the tabloids,” Tony laughs harshly, “Starks have a history with substance abuse, and there I am, thrown into a student body just waiting to get back at the kid outsmarting them.”

Sighing, Tony looks up and frowns when he sees Steve just standing there. He pats the bed next to him. “Come lie down. This is not a tale you should hear standing up.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Steve argues weakly, because Tony should not feel like he owes him any explanation. Although he wants to know, feels an almost physical need. Because if he knows, if he finds out where Tony’s cracks started, maybe he can help mending them.

“I know,” Tony says, then corrects himself, “I know that now. That I am allowed to keep secrets. But I want to tell you.” He smiles and Steve does not doubt it is true. “You deserve to know what you got yourself into.”

So Steve walks to the bed and lays down cautiously next to Tony. This is the closest they have been since that kiss in Las Vegas. And still it is not close enough. All Steve wants is to reach out and take that frown from Tony, make him forget all those sad stories if only for the night.

He does not. Instead, he closes his eyes and listens.

Later, he will remember names like Sunset Bain and Tiberius Stone. He pictures Tony as a child, lonely and desperate to fit in, drinking and making himself the hit of every party. That is what he has learned from his parents: how to numb his feelings and still rule any social occasion.

He also learns about Rhodey. Steve does not need to hear about how best friends are sometimes the only ones able to save someone from themselves, but he appreciates nonetheless that Tony has found that someone.

He vows that, next to Pepper and Rhodey, Tony will have such a friend in Tony too, if he will have him.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Steve wakes up in Tony’s old bed, with Tony nowhere in sight. He distantly remembers falling asleep to Tony’s breathing, and both sides of the bed are crumpled, which makes it likely they have shared the place for the night. It makes Steve inexplicably sad that he is alone now.

The room has lost some of its beauty in the morning light. It still belongs undeniably to Tony but the hectic chaos looks more of a mess now than art touched by a genius. Tony’s absence filters into that too, causing Steve to feel out of place, like he is trespassing.

Rather hasty, he sits up in bed. His shirt is all in wrinkles and out of question for another meeting with Tony’s parents. With a bit of luck, he can find his way out of the house without anyone being the wiser and send his excuses to Tony later.

Just when he makes to stand up, he notices a piece of paper laying atop his shoes. He wants to dismiss it at first, seeing as the whole room is filled with similar papers, but upon looking closer, he notices his name in Tony’s scrawled handwriting.

_Steve,_ it says _, find me in the kitchen when you’re awake. Take your time._

Beneath that, Tony has drawn him a map to guide him to the kitchen, complete with distances and the number of stairs he will need to take. The thoughtfulness of the message has Steve smiling, even though it renders his plan to leave unnoticed futile. He can barely leave Tony waiting for him.

Neatly folding the piece of paper, Steve tucks it into his shirt pocket for safekeeping before he gets up and quickly gets into the adjoined bathroom freshen up at least, even though he cannot do much for his appearance. Then, following the instructions, he finds his way safely through the house until he stands in front of a door that can only lead to the kitchen. A radio is playing audibly, along with the peaceful clinging and clashing associated with kitchen work. Taking a last deep breath, Steve knocks and goes in.

Inside, Tony sits at a table, eating pancakes and chatting amiably with the same liveried man who was serving them dinner the night before. It is such a sweet scene, somehow, the first time Tony seems at home in his parents’ house. He, for one, is freshly showered with his hair still wet and spiking up, his fresh dress shirt only half buttoned up, wearing no shoes or socks.

“Steve,” Tony greets, speaking around a piece of pancake in his mouth before swallowing. “Now you can finally meet Jarvis properly. He’s the only reason I survived my childhood.” He is smiling but his tone is completely serious. “Jarvis, meet Steve. He’s the kind of person you always wanted me to have as a friend.”

Steve is as touched by that introduction as he does not know how to react to it. Jarvis, on the other hand, does not look like anything out of the ordinary happened, but cleans his hands before he steps around the kitchen counter.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he says as they shake hands. Then he gestures at the table and asks, “What may I bring you for breakfast?”

Looking around helplessly, Steve wonders what he can ask for without being an imposition or appearing impolite. He does not like being waited on, not even when he pays for it.

Doubtlessly noticing his discomfort, Tony taps the place next to him, into which Steve slides gratefully, and cheerfully says, “More of the same, J. Although Steve takes his coffee with milk.”

“Right away, sir,” Jarvis says, turning back to work.

“You know how I take my coffee,” Steve mutters before he can stop himself, caught between being moved and embarrassed.

“Of course I do. Milk in coffee,” Tony mock-shudders, not bothering to hide his grin, “that’s blasphemy.”

“I sometimes forget how crazy you are about this.” Steve expects the glare before it hits him. What surprises him, however, is Jarvis’ agreement.

“I daresay Sir would not function without coffee.” Jarvis sounds undeniably fond as he places Steve’s cup in front of him.

“I wonder how anyone can.” To highlight his point, Tony raises his cup and takes a big swallow, all the while wearing a ridiculously blissful expression. “I’m sure most of my blood has been replaced by it by now.”

No one protests that, unwilling to get into an argument over something that could just as well be true.

“Chocolate or fruit?” Jarvis asks as he puts a plate with steaming pancakes on the table, followed by a saucer with liquid chocolate and a bowl of cut strawberries. “Just ask if you want anything else.”

“Thank you,” Steve says just in time with his stomach grumbling loudly. One might think that the opulent dinner of the night before would be enough to keep him fed for days. Instead it feels like he has not eaten for a week.

And the pancakes are delicious, better than Bucky’s, although he would never dare to say that out loud, lest he will never get them again. Only once he has finished his first one – having to defend it against Tony who, despite still having his own plate full, wants to steal his – does Steve look up again.

When he notices that Jarvis is already cleaning the kitchen, he frowns. “Aren’t your parents going to join us?” Steve asks, knowing it is the wrong thing to say even before he sees Tony and Jarvis exchanging a meaningful look

“Howard has already left for the office,” Tony says, shrugging like he could not care less, “And Mum rarely comes down for breakfast.”

“But she did ask me to send her regrets for not seeing you off,” Jarvis takes over smoothly, even while Tony snorts in disbelief.

When he is done cleaning, Jarvis joins them at the table, nursing his own cup of coffee, pouring milk into it despite Tony’s disappointed glare. It is nice, Steve thinks, like this is the true family meeting, not the dinner last night, and he fits in nicely, without any pressure to behave in a specific way.

When they are done eating, Jarvis stands to take their plates and protests when Steve stands to help, but shares the work willingly when Steve insists. Tony, meanwhile, watches them, talking about one of his projects, satisfied with their occasional agreeable hums and half-comprehending questions. Steve almost wishes the morning would never end, but of course it does.

Once Jarvis leaves them alone, a silence falls between them and the atmosphere grows noticeably cooler. Tony looks very lost for a moment, staring into space before coming back to reality with a slight jerk.

“All right,” he then says, almost without inflection, “let me find some shoes, then we’ll get you home.”

It comes so abruptly that Steve feels the loss of the companionable mood dearly. “You don’t need to hurry just for my sake,” he says, trying to convey he does not mind staying, not when it is just them.

But Tony shakes his head. “Nonsense, you promised me a dinner and I needled a whole night out of you.” Tony speaks dismissively in a way that steals the air right out of Steve’s lungs.

They are back to business it seems, but Steve wonders why. Has he said or done something wrong? How does Tony change his persona so quickly? So, yes, he supposed he would be home for the night, but he had enjoyed himself nonetheless. Their talking last night, breakfast with Jarvis. It felt almost real.

Before he can say anything, though, Tony jumps to his feet and brushes past him. At the door, he stops for a brief moment and looks back at Steve with an unreadable expression, but then he shrugs and is gone, leaving Steve in the kitchen that does not feel warm anymore. Just lonely.

Ten minutes later, Tony is back, now dressed immaculately again, but his face is still as closed off. He gestures for Steve to follow him. The driver already waits for them outside, but apart from a cheerful “Good morning,” no words are exchanged.

Steve does not know what to say and Tony takes out his phone, tapping away at it relentlessly, so they drive in silence. Steve is not quite sure why Tony bothered at all to come with him. Why not just throw him out of the house and be done with it? Maybe he is just bothered by how personal their talking had become the night before and now he does not know how to deal with it.

“Thank you,” Tony says once the limousine has come to a stop in front of Becca’s run-down apartment complex. It sounds final, somehow, causing something heavy to grow in Steve’s stomach. “I’m sure my parents are satisfied for now. But I will call you if I need to borrow you again for an evening.”

Steve cannot help but stare. First he thinks he has misheard, then he searches for a smirk or any sign of amusement on Tony’s face, anything to tell him Tony does not mean what he said exactly like he said it. Steve searches and searches but comes up short. That is when he jerks back from Tony. Not once before during this endeavour has he felt this cheap, like something to be used and thrown away. They have been in this together from the very beginning, simply spinning their tale a bit farther. But now Steve seems nothing more than a nuisance to Tony, the man he lied to his parents about but whom he has, annoyingly, have to deal with even afterwards.

“This is it?” Steve asks, hearing himself how flat his voice sounds.

Tony on the other hand barely looks up from his phone. “Yes. Finally, don’t you think?” There is an honesty in the words that Steve does not want to believe. Tony is good at pretending, but no matter how hard Steve looks, he does not see anything false in Tony’s demeanour. “I’d apologize for Howard’s behaviour but I did warn you about him.”

“I mean, this is –” Steve stumbles over the words, not able to explain how they went from last night to this, “you’ll call if there is something else to do?”

Again, Tony does not react to Steve’s incredulity. “I’ll have someone get in contact with you for your promised compensation. But you’ll be rid of me now.” Tony sounds flippant, careless, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

It has anger surging through his veins, even while he cannot seem to grasp for anything to say. Instead, he stares at Tony, at his impeccable suit and uncaring manner, and does not recognize him at all.

“Was there something else?” Tony asks then, waving at the door like he cannot understand what Steve is still doing here, hogging his precious time.

Cheeks burning with shame, Steve scrambles to get out of the car. He almost storms off without any parting words but he finds he cannot quite let this go, so he turns around again.

“You know, I do understand now why the tabloids love writing about you. You really are the kind of horrible person they picture you as, treating everyone but yourself like crap,” he spats, not holding back. He is hurt, even while feeling like an idiot, because maybe this is how it was always going to end; their business concluded and them going their separate ways. “But all right, pay me like the idiot whore I apparently am, good enough to parade around in front of your parents who only want what’s best for you, instead of treating me like an actual human being.”

At that, Tony does look up, although Steve wishes he had not, for his eyes are dark, unreadable, glinting with something that might just be detached affront.

“I didn’t touch you again,” Tony says, stiffly and completely missing the point. “So you can hardly accuse me of objectifying you.”

If that is how Tony thinks of him, Steve is glad he did not reach out the night before, no matter how much he had wanted to. “Well,” he drawls, his tone cutting, “if you ever _need_ me again and decide to cross that line, know that it’ll cost extra.”

With that, Steve slams the car door shut and storms off, furious beyond measure but mostly at himself because he was stupid enough to think that he and Tony might be getting along quite well there, that they could become friends even. He hates himself for thinking they could possibly be more too. He should have seen it coming, really. Why would Tony become attached to a drunken one-night-stand? Everything they did, every word, every gesture, every smile, was only play-pretend, a simple act so they would pass scrutiny from Tony’s parents so that Tony can return to his old life. Which does not include Steve.

Taking two steps at the time, Steve hurries into Becca’s apartment, glad she gave him a key so he does not have to wait for her to let him in, sure he is in no state for social niceties. Fitting his course of bad luck, however, Bucky hears him coming in and comes into the hall to greet him.

“Finally decided to come back?” Bucky asks cheerfully, then sobers as he notices Steve’s expression. “What happened?”

“Not now, Buck,” Steve says, not waiting for an answer but walking right to their room where he can close the door and pretend the past two days have not happened and he is not a moron beyond hope.

Despite himself, he looks out of the window at the street below. The limousine, and therefore Tony, is long gone. He does not know why he has expected – _hoped_ – any differently. But it hurts nonetheless. All of it hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! (Well, actually I'm not, because I loved writing this, and I like the idea of Tony being a stranger in his own home but feeling safe with Jarvis, and as much as I like to see them happy, I prefer them being idiots about it first. So, here we go.)  
> I hope you enjoyed this nonetheless. Please let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone who left kudos and comments, or simply enjoy this story.

When Rhodey calls, Tony does not pick up. Which, in itself, is already a sign that something is wrong. Back in their MIT days they had established the rule that Tony always accepts Rhodey’s calls to avoid having Rhodey immediately alarmed and ready to pull Tony out of whatever miserable situation he landed himself in this time. They did not have to have a complete conversation, just a life sign to put Rhodey’s mind at ease. Nothing had changed over the years, since Tony is still in the habit of making stupid decisions when left to his own devices and Rhodey will always look out for him.

Instead of panicking instantly – there are good reasons for why Tony does not answer even though he never leaves his phone out of reach, most of them involving Steve – Rhodey calls again – because there are also a lot of bad reasons, some of which could also involve Steve. And again, no answer.

Rhodey is not quite sure what to think about Steve. For one, he is an absolute miracle happening at just the right time. Tony’s relationship with Howard and Stane gets more strained the older Tony gets, the more ideas he has about how to live his own life and what to do with his brain. Old men seldom appreciate change and Tony is all about that. Weapons, or so Rhodey thinks, bore Tony. He still has a thousand ideas to make them better, constantly raising SI’s net worth, but weapons will always be what they are: a means for destruction, no matter the reasoning behind their use.

But Tony does not call himself a futurist for no reason. He wants to leave the world a better place than he has found it, no matter that this pitches him directly against his father. Creating the trial program for the prosthetics he built was the only way he could get his inventions out to people who could not afford them without Howard putting an end to it as a waste of time and resources. In that manner, they quarrel about all of Tony’s ideas. The man who wanted to build flying cars once has long ago disappeared, leaving behind someone too old, too used to the constant flow of money, to accept taking risks.

So for Tony, bored with his father’s projects and increasingly frustrated by being second-guessed at any turn, finding someone to distract him was the best thing that could happen. Although the act in itself is dubious. Tony grew up with beauty all around him and with people throwing themselves at him, and he has never cared for any of it, has never had any luck with serious relationships. So much so that he has withdrawn from all of it emotionally; remaining the centre of attention at every party but not committing to it anymore.

What is so special then about Steve Rogers? How did he stick out of the masses of drunk people in Las Vegas that Tony brought him home? That they slept together does not surprise Rhodey at all; even he can see the appeal and Tony as never been one to refuse life’s delights. Everything beyond that, however, has Rhodey’s hackles rising.

Tony has a habit of falling for the wrong people. Bain, who strung him along for information. Stone, who outright abused him. Even Pepper, who would always seek something more than Tony could comfortably give. The examples are plentiful, so Rhodey is naturally concerned.

On the other hand, he had _liked_ Steve. Well-spoken, humble, knowing how precious life is because he has been on the brink of losing it. It is too good to be true. Especially for Tony, who does not believe in good things happening to him.

Rhodey dials Tony’s number again, not quite holding his breath but ready to leave his home at a moment’s notice to make sure Tony is all right. Nothing. But this time he gets a text message back.

_Busy_ , it reads. Nothing more.

It could be all right. Tony and Steve could be having wild sex at the moment for all he knows, or they are in the kitchen having a food fight with Jarvis. Anything is possible with Tony. And still this does not sit right with him.

_Call me as soon as you can,_ Rhodey writes back, and keeps staring at his phone for long minutes, waiting for an answer that never comes.

Hours later, when it is already dark, Tony knocks on Rhodey’s door, already quite inebriated and carrying two bottles of expensive whiskey, which leaves no doubt that he is planning on getting full-out drunk. Rhodey does not like the implications of that at all, but he is glad at least that Tony has come to him instead of locking himself into his workshop to wallow in his apparent misery alone.

“Let me get some glasses,” Rhodey says, foregoing any questions for now.

He ignores the way Tony rolls his eyes, clearly telling he would not have bothered with glasses at all – he brought two bottles after all – but Rhodey always insists on keeping things as much in control as he is able to with Tony working against him at all times.

So they crash on his couch, nursing the first drink of many, while Rhodey waits patiently for Tony to speak, or to give a sign that he is ready to pretend having a conversation which is mostly kept up by Rhodey, talking about his day, his neighbours, his job. Over the years they have perfected the art of reading each other without having to utter a single word.

“I’m an idiot,” Tony announces after three glasses, his eyes closed and no particular heat behind the words.

Most of their problems start either with Tony being an idiot or Howard being an arse. Nothing new here, so Rhodey does not say anything but finishes his first glass, not immediately reaching out to refill like Tony does.

“I even looked into dad’s old notes on flying cars.” Tony only ever calls Howard _dad_ when he is in one of his worst moods, believing all he has been preached about himself since the moment he could understand the words. “Wanted to see whether I could build one. For an inside joke.”

Abruptly, Rhodey realizes this is not about family or work but Steve. Who else would Tony want to have private jokes with? Deciding he will need more alcohol for this, Rhodey refills his glass too, consciously refraining from filling Tony’s too, despite him holding it out expectantly. That will not keep Tony from drinking too much, but Rhodey has his principles, and one of them is not to add fuel to the fire burning too wild already to control it any longer.

“What happened?” he finally asks. Even if he knows Tony well, Rhodey does not want to make assumptions. So many people do, it is the origin of too many hurts already.

“I was in over my head, forgot for a moment that it wasn’t real.” Tony looks so miserable that Rhodey wants to reach out, but this is not something that touch can soothe. And Tony catches on quickly, rearranging his expression into something less affected, detached even. “I brought him home, we yelled a bit and then he left. Story over.”

Rhodey does not believe for a moment that Tony raised his voice at Steve. He is not one for shouting, having had too much of that directed at him during his childhood. Instead, he sharpens his words to hurt, directing them right at where someone is the most vulnerable. For someone as unguarded as Steve, who seemed to carry his heart on his sleeve, that must be worse than a full-fledged fight.

“So you like him?” Rhodey asks, ignoring the rest for the moment. With Tony, one has to establish the ground rules first before trying to help him towards a realisation. Whatever their argument was about, whatever started it, to go forward, to decide _where_ to go, they have to get clear on where Tony stands, what he feels and wants.

And Tony, unreadable as he often is, smiles, if only briefly and in what seems an involuntary manner. “I did,” he admits quietly, then shakes his head, turning grim. “No use in it now, is there?”

If only things where that easy. One cannot simply will their feelings to cease existing, not even someone who was trained for it since childhood.

“Have you called him?” Rhodey asks, despite knowing the answer already. The one thing Tony deals even worse with than emotions is appearing weak. _Stark men are made of iron_ , indeed.

“You should have seen him, Rhodey,” Tony exclaims. He reaches for the whiskey bottle and hesitates a moment over his glass before ignoring it altogether. Taking a sip, he grimaces. “He was disgusted with me. Like they all are when they scratch beneath the shiny surface.”

Tony’s self-esteem has always been abysmal, no matter what he makes the world believe, but he sounds utterly wretched now.

“He did not seem very interested in the surface,” Rhodey argues calmly, remembering Steve’s intent look, always searching for _more_ than what Tony was showing. That was what had given Rhodey hope most of all, because Tony is a man of layers and if one wants to get to know him, one cannot be satisfied with only what he shows willingly.

“He’s better off without me,” Tony says, almost casually, but that is belied by the way he watches Rhodey out of the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction.

Hearing his own argument twisted and turned against him has Rhodey speechless for a second. _You are better off without them_ , he has said a thousand times, starting quite early into their friendship, when Tony’s ability to recognize toxic people has been even less developed than now. He has never wanted Tony to think of himself as one of them.

“Don’t you think that decision should be left to him?” he questions, taking care to keep his voice light.

In response, Tony merely shrugs flippantly. “He has already decided, right? He left, after all.”

Things are never that easy, however, so Rhodey say, “After you argued.”

Tony should know better than most that things said in anger are not always the truth. Although growing up with Howard might have warped his sense for that. Howard, after all, is a bitter man no matter in which state of mind.

“Let it go, Rhodey. It’s over,” Tony waves dismissively. The whiskey in his hand sloshes dangerously, so he quickly takes a swallow. Then he faces Rhodey again, brittle mischief on his face. “Better tell me about that girl you went out with last week.”

It is a classical move to distract Rhodey and, to his shame, it works. “How do you know about that?” Because he did _not_ tell Tony about his coffee date, preferring to try his luck before offering himself up to Tony’s teasing. Only to be busted by Tony’s tendency to be a sneaky little shit who abuses his technical prowess to spy on his friends. “Never mind. Do we have to have that talk again about how you should not hack satellites to –”

“Calm down,” Tony interrupts him, a fake grin splitting his face, “I left the satellites alone this time. Only hacked your phone.”

Neither of them is happy with the change in topic, with leaving things unresolved. But Tony does not think there is anything to resolve and Rhodey knows better than to push. So, unwillingly, he tells Tony about his – rather unsuccessful – date and pretends he does not notice when Tony’s attention slips every couple of sentences.

If companionship is all he can offer for the moment, this is exactly what he will do. Outsiders often do not understand their friendship, but they do not know what either of them is like out of the public eye. They understand each other, And here Tony can let himself fall, knowing he will be caught. That, Rhodey knows, is better than what most people have.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, they are still in New York, because Steve did not want to force Bucky to cut his visit with his sister short just because he suddenly cannot stand to see the familiar streets anymore, knowing that, only across town, Tony works and lives, probably barely sparing a thought for Steve anymore, now that he has gotten out of him what he needed.

Steve is not in a good place. Bucky has tried and failed to get him out of their room, to go to all their old places in Brooklyn, mark the changes made by the years they were gone. But Steve cannot bring himself to move, to even think of the outside world. He is tired and hurt, wondering how anyone could be as stupid as he was.

A small, still objective part of Steve’s brain realizes how ridiculous he is, moping in his room after a man he never had any right to call his own. They were not in a relationship. Their marriage was a scam. Most of all, they were not in love.

Well, Tony is not in love. Steve is not so sure about himself anymore. What is that feeling deep in his stomach that does not let him sleep? What does it mean that he cannot turn anywhere without thinking about Tony?

Love is such a big word, especially considering that they do not know each other so well. But is knowledge a requited part of love? His mother, when he has asked as a sickly boy, wondering whether he would have to keep fighting his whole life, had told him that love is something that both just happens and requires a lot of work. He would know he found someone worth loving when he met them, and everything else is up to him.

But does he know? Tony is brilliant and funny and difficult and damaged. Not a minute they spent together feels wasted for Steve, and if he does not consciously keep his mind away, he longs to spend a million more with him.

But Tony does not owe him anything. They had a deal, no matter that Steve kept looking for something more. Tony was always very clear about what he wanted – and that was not Steve. Just someone to parade in front of his parents, a convenient alibi. Why would he still bother with Steve now that his part is done? A man of his status and intellect surely has better things to do than waste his time on a poor and boring art student.

Steve hates himself for falling into the trap set by his own idiocy. He does not blame Tony but just wants to forget, to get rid of that heavy feeling on his chest that tells him he has lost something precious. But one cannot lose something one never had in the first place. So he counts the minutes passing, waiting for the pain to pass with them.

Then a check arrives for him and that is just the last straw.

Becca comes in, baring the envelope with his name in an elaborate script that is definitely not Tony’s. It lacks a post stamp and must therefore have been delivered by hand. Who else would know where Steve can be found here in New York but Tony? Who else would care? Although that last part is naturally debatable, since Tony very much does _not_ care.

There is no message, no explanation. Just a flimsy slip of paper with Tony’s signature and a scrawled figure that is big enough to have Steve’s windpipe constricting. He feels numb. Until he does not.

The longer he stares at Tony’s name, the more he feels like he is waking up from a bad dream, stumbling into a worse one. His fingertips tingle, warmth spreads through his veins, his heartbeat stutters before starting to race, sounding like drums in his ear. After days of being heartbroken, anger has him coming back to life.

He curses loudly, causing Bucky to come running into their room, only half-dressed after his shower, the arm on display like he usually avoids.

“What happened?” he asks, wide-eyed and with no small amount of dread. They are not actually ever getting any good news, but that does not mean they have gotten used to the bad ones. “Is it your exhibition?”

In lieu of an answer, Steve pushes the letter at his best friend, and runs his hand through his hair in frustration.

“That,” Bucky says after a long minute, “is a lot of money.” Then his eyes fall on the signature and understanding dawns on his face. His lips twist into a sad caricature of a smile.

“Who does he even think he is?” Steve growls under his breath, making an effort not to reach for the check because he fears he would tear it up without a second thought and he is not yet ready to give up on his source of sudden fury.

“Someone rich enough to keep his promises.” Bucky whistles lowly before looking up at Steve, quickly adopting a more sombre expression. “What did you expect?”

“I expected him to not turn out exactly as the press made him out to be,” Steve says, surprising himself with how bitter his tone is. “I expected him to be more than that. But I guess what he showed _me_ was the act, not the other way around.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bucky looks at him, incredulous, holding the check precariously between two fingers. “You had an agreement, and he honoured it.”

Bucky knows how righteous Steve can get so of course he would empathize with Tony here. But Steve cannot just pretend that the business with Tony’s parents and the _other_ thing they had are easily separated.

“But I’m not his whore,” Steve says, his voice breaking halfway through. The world itself feels ugly in his mouth, but that is nothing to how he feels remembering the way Tony has dismissed him, barely even sparing him a glance.

“And he treated you like anything but,” Bucky argues, futilely trying to calm him. “Steve, that guy was all over you in the club and when we met because of the NDAs, he was still watching you like you’ve hung the moon. Now you tell me the very moment you agreed to meeting his parents and getting compensated for it, he stops touching you. Completely. I think that sounds fairly decent of him.”

Bucky shrugs, although his expression remains serious, imploring Steve to maybe try and think about Tony’s intentions. But to no avail. When Steve thinks he is right about something, there is no way to change his mind.

“I didn’t ask to be paid,” Steve insists stubbornly. In fact, he has never actually taken Tony serious when he talked about compensation. It is another reminder of how different their worlds are.

“Did you tell him that, or did you just let him assume?” Bucky asks, knowing he is onto something when Steve avoids his eyes. “Because he seems like the kind of person who is used to people only ever wanting him for something, be it money or fame or sex.”

“I’m not –” Steve starts then clicks his mouth shut, remembering the last thing he said to Tony. _It’ll cost extra._ Like a jerk.

“Look, Steve, I’m not saying you should give this money back, because we could really need it,” grimacing – because getting Steve to do something just for the sake of making things easier for them is all but impossible – Bucky hopes he is not going to regret this, “but maybe you should. At the very least, talk to him.”

Talk, yes, because Steve is so very good at that. “How?”

Throwing up is arms in a gesture of defeat, Bucky deadpans, “You could always call and try using your mouth.” Steve might sometimes ask for advice, but in the end he always follows his own mind.

“Jerk,” Steve mutters but decides to drop the subject. If he annoys Bucky too much, he will get Nat and Clint involved and then it will only be a matter of time before they stage an intervention. That only ever ends in all of them getting horribly drunk and acting out increasingly worse ways of how the situation could end.

No, Steve thinks, this is a problem he has to solve on his own.

In the end, Steve does the only thing he can think of: he sends the check back. He does not add a note reading _I’m not your whore_ , as he almost wanted to do when it first arrived, but neither does he explain himself or ask for a meeting. The gesture alone has to be enough. If Tony does not have any words for him, why should he waste energy on sending any of his own?

And true enough, Tony seems to understand. He does not call, does not write, does not suggest another meeting. There is sudden, complete silence between them. Steve is relieved by that at first, because he was never good with living with lies, but when days turn into weeks, he feels the loss keenly. Ever since Las Vegas, not a day has passed where they have not communicated in some way. In New York, they have spent a significant amount of time together each day. They never ran out of things to talk about, and there were always smiles.

People say a clean cut is the best that could happen, that it hurts less. If that is truly the case, Steve does not want to know what the alternative feels like.

 

* * *

 

Bucky prides himself on knowing Steve rather well. Ever since joining him in a schoolyard fight when they were barely old enough to ride the bus by themselves, they have been inseparable. Their friendship started with a “I would have managed on my own,” answered by amused disbelief on Bucky’s part, and evolved into something where they depend on each other so much that life without each other is all but unimaginable.

A lot of people have told them over the years how unhealthy that is, how much potential for disaster it bears. But to the both of them it is the most natural thing in the world. Their other friends, Clint and Natasha, in a less distinctive way even Thor and Sam, fit into their routine just as easily. They all know about the need for companionship, the importance of loyalty. If they have nothing else in the world, they at least have each other.

So witnessing Steve in his heartbroken state is difficult for Bucky – as much as there was no way around it. Well, Bucky had not expected Steve and Tony to fall out this abruptly. But he had seen Steve falling for the genius, had known the inevitability of it when he first saw them looking at each other, even before he saw Steve’s sketches. Tony was as starved for love as Steve, although neither of them would likely admit it.

He still has not gotten a clear answer out of Steve what has happened.

“I was a fool,” Steve had said, when Bucky finally got him talking at all, “I thought there was something between us – the way he talked. But it was all a show.”

A show for whom, Bucky wonders. All that crap about needing someone to show to his parents seemed like a miserable excuse from the very beginning. What Tony needs, or so Bucky thinks, is a companion, someone to look right through his acts. And Steve would have been perfect for that – if only feelings had not gotten involved. Steve, he knows, is an entirely strategic being, until he gets emotionally invested.

Now they have destroyed something that could have been good, through stubbornness and miscommunication. Bucky cannot let that stand.

When he meets with Natasha to make a battle plan, it is Clint who opens the door and hands Bucky a beer before he has even made it into the hall. Those two are an odd pair, although Bucky is not sure he has any right to talk. They all live out of each other’s pockets and off each other’s air. That Clint and Nat, instead of being childhood friends and growing into their intimacy, only met each other on some dubious mission neither of them ever talks about, makes their bond no less strong or real. They all have their demons and they make a habit out of fighting them together.

Letting himself fall onto the couch, Bucky sighs, already exhausted by the prospect of making Steve see reason. To his knowledge, no one has ever made their Captain do something he did not want to do, superior rank or good reasons or not.

“So,” Clint says, pushing Lucky off the cushions so all three of them will have enough room, “are we ready to tackle the impossible task of helping our star-crossed lovers?” He smirks, obviously joking, because they will always have each other’s backs and Clint is the one with the most patience for emotional disasters.

But Bucky decides to take his questions serious for a moment. “You think we shouldn’t?”

That is not what Clint meant but it is always an option. Pending their success, Steve will not appreciate their efforts, will lecture them maybe even if they get him talking to Tony again. Steve is stubborn like that, always wanting to make his own way.

“Not at all,” Clint says, somehow managing to sound casual and earnest at the same time. “Just checking whether we’re on the same page. Our Stevie deserves a bit of happiness, even if we have to beat him into it.”

“As we will likely have to,” Nat scoffs as she enters the room, clad only in an oversized t-shirt and briefs, carrying nail polish.

When she sits down, she puts her feet into Clint’s lap and throws the small bottle at him before leaning back, expecting him to do all the work. Which he does, almost too happily.

“Any other plans?” Bucky asks hopefully, because Steve has a very thick skull and years’ worth of experience in ignoring what fists are trying to tell him.

“We could lock them into a broom closet together,” Clint remarks cheerfully, arranging Natasha’s toes for easy access.

“And where do you plan on finding a broom closet big enough for how tall Steve has grown?” Bucky asks, rolling his eyes. Sometimes he still has a hard time believing Steve’s growth spurt, no matter how many years it has been now that his best friend is towering over him instead of barely reaching his shoulders.

In turn, Clint smiles lecherously. “There’s not supposed to be much room left, if you get my meaning.” The whole thing is made only more ridiculous by him holding dark green nail polish in his hands.

“We got your meaning before you opened your mouth.” Deciding she has enough of his idleness, Natasha nudges him with her foot, even while her face is indulgent.

“Do you have any _feasible_ plans?” Bucky adjusts his original question, smiling despite himself.

Concentrating on Nat’s toes now, Clint proposes absentmindedly, “You could steal Steve’s phone so we can arrange a meeting in his stead. Get them to talk.”

Bucky had briefly entertained the same idea, but it is not in Steve’s nature to be conned into talking with someone he is furious with.

“Even if Tony were to believe it,” he says, putting an emphasis on _if_ , because the genius might have been enamoured with Steve, but judging on how little Bucky got out of his best friend, Tony might be in just as little a conciliatory mood, rendering the whole idea futile. “How would we get Steve there without him turning around as soon as he finds out it is a ruse. What if they start shouting at each other?”

“Did they shout at each other?” Nat asks, steeling a sip from Bucky’s bottle.

“I believe Steve shouted,” he says carefully, “because he was terribly embarrassed once the anger left him.” For one throwing himself into every fight he can find, Steve is curiously prudish about carrying out his own.

“So we don’t only have to battle their idiocy but also Steve’s injured sense of honour?” Clint groans, never once looking up as to not smudge the nail polish. Nat trusts him there, and he will not let her down.

“I think we can’t do this alone,” Nat says, wriggling her toes when Clint announces one foot as finished, inspecting his work.

Bucky, however, frowns. “I doubt Sam can help. They might be friends but Steve does not believe in all that psychological stuff. And Thor does not have the brightest ideas when it comes to delicate situations.” Also, but he does not say that out loud, he is uncomfortable with involving anyone out of their inner circle, as they often jokingly call themselves. Steve might not entirely forgive them as it is.

“I’m not talking about _our_ friends.” Nat’s lips curl into that half-smile of hers and she produces a slip of paper from somewhere, which she pushes over the table towards him. On it is a phone number and a name. _Col. Rhodes_.

Bucky is impressed. Steve had only told him in passing about Tony’s best friend, but Nat, as usual, made the necessary connections much faster than him. To make this work, they might have to work on both ends of the equation and since they cannot feasibly reach Tony themselves, Colonel Rhodes is their best bet.

“How did you manage that?” he asks, not actually serious about wanting an answer. Natasha never tells them about how she manages all the miraculous – and sometimes downright frightening – things she does. All for their own good, they are sure.

“Trade secret,” she predictably says, sinking back into the cushions after a job well done.

“Do you think this’ll help?” Clint asks, although the question is only perfunctory. Someone has to ask. Without doubt, no progress would ever be made.

“Only one way to find out.” Bucky grins, feeling much more hopeful than when he came. He pockets the slip of paper, patting it through the fabric of his shirt as if to make sure it did not magically disappear. Now he only needs to think of what to say, how to persuade Colonel Rhodes that it might be in Tony’s interest to not write his relationship with Steve – be it friends or, hopefully, something more – off completely. It seems their meddling has only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Tony and Rhodey's friendship. (Not quite the one in the movies, because that leaves a lot to be desired.) But just thinking about how they must have been at MIT, Tony a consant disaster-waiting-to-happen, and Rhodey trying to keep him from getting himself killed.   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please consider leaving kudos or a comment!  
> All the best!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos!
> 
> If anyone is interested, I'm looking for a beta reader for this monster. (As a reward, you'd get to read the ending before anyone else ;-) ) If you're interested in helping out, leave a comment, or drop me a message on tumblr (blancheludis) or on Discord (Myrime). I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Now, enjoy our boys being idiots!

Bucky hides the slip of paper deep inside his pocket, ridiculously afraid that Steve will find it. There are a hundred excuses he could give in that case; most of them even plausible. Also, Steve does not show much of an interest in anything these days, so why would he search through Bucky’s things?

He would just like to get rid of it. The easiest way, of course, would be to save the number in his phone and be done with it. But that would show more commitment than he is quite ready for. He wants to help Steve, but he is not sure which way is the best to do so.

Calling Rhodes would very much mean to go behind Steve’s back. On the other hand, there is no getting through to Steve as he is right now. No way to get him out of his own head. There is really only one thing to do.

Bucky chooses to finally get through with it during his lunch break at the restaurant where he works part-time. The chances of being disturbed or found out there are minimal.

He does not have a plan, does not know how he will be received. Maybe Stark is as much of an arsehole as he pretends to be and has already forgotten all about Steve. But maybe there truly is something to be fixed here, something that Bucky can do. So how can he give up this chance?

The Colonel takes his time to pick up, and when he does, he answers with a brisk “Yes?”, that sounds somehow suspicious. Might be the unknown number, might be that he is a paranoid person.

Here goes nothing, Bucky thinks, and takes care to smile so his voice will not sound as nervous as he feels. “Is this Colonel Rhodes?” he asks but does not give the other man time to answer. “My name is Bucky. I think we need to talk.”

A short silence ensues on the other end. It is long enough for Bucky to fear Rhodes has already hung up. But he waits, more or less patiently.

“Bucky?” Rhodes ask, sounding like he has to say the name out loud to help his mind place it. “You’re a friend of that Steve who has Tony utterly depressed?”

Not able to help himself, Bucky sighs in relief. “That may sound wrong,” he says, almost giddy, “but I’m glad that Tony is apparently as affected as Steve.”

It is a gamble, simply putting it out there, waiting for Rhodes to get to his own conclusion. But if they want his help, they cannot just dictate him what to do and hope for the best.

This time, the pause is a bit longer. But then, with a hint of irritation that does not feel like it is directed at Bucky, Rhodes says, “You want to tell me they’re both just giant idiots?”

Bucky laughs. Because that is exactly what Steve is and always was: an idiot believing life has to follow certain rules, only to be offended when people, as usual, bog that up.

“Seems like it.”

“Well then,” Rhodes says, adopting a slightly mischievous tone, “what do you suggest we do against it?”

Bucky thinks he could come to like the Colonel. But then he stops short, because he has _no idea_ what to do. He had hoped Rhodes would have an angle or an immediate plan.

“We need to get them talking again.” Bucky says slowly, to buy some time. “A chance meeting perhaps, or a blind date.”

He can almost hear Rhodes shaking his head. “Tony’d just make a scene if he thought we set him up.”

They are not so different after all, Tony and Steve. Bucky wonders whether Tony is as good at sulking as his best friend.

“So we need to be subtle.”

Which is a joke right there. Nat can do subtle, even if that usually ends with a knife between someone’s ribs. Even Clint can be sneaky, at times. But Bucky and Steve are usually upfront, banging their heads against walls to see whether it will give in somewhere.

“Tony certainly never is,” Rhodey comments quietly. “And I don’t think a meeting will cut it. Tony is stubborn as it is, but in a public setting he will never make compromises.”

The public persona. In a way, Bucky thinks he understands. As someone whose every move is watched, he would avoid taking a step if he does not know where it leads him.

“So, what do we do?”

Rhodes hesitates, likely wondering whether this is worth it just like Bucky has done before calling. Going behind Tony’s back just on the off-chance that he and Steve might want a second chance.

“Do you think you could get Steve to call?”

Bucky snorts, then bites his lips to keep himself from saying something inappropriate. “If you say Tony is stubborn, I’m certain Steve is worse. You should have seen him, sixty pounds of nothing but never shirking a fight.”

“Well,” Rhodes argues, sounding amused, “we don’t want to get the two of them fighting.”

“They manage that well enough on their own,” Bucky agrees, wondering whether they even fully grasp the enormity of the task they are setting themselves here.

“What we need most is time. And I might just have an idea to buy us some,” Rhodes says, something like excitement in his voice. “You just keep working on Steve.”

_Just_ , Bucky thinks, but nonetheless promises, “I’ll try.”

“What more can we do?”

 

* * *

 

Days later, Steve storms into Bucky’s room, unusually agitated. Which, despite the potential for disaster, is a welcome change to the apathetic wallowing from before.

“Why hasn’t he sent the divorce papers yet?” Steve asks loudly, not bothering to check whether Bucky is busy. He paces the length of the room, glancing at Bucky every time he turns. “He can’t truly believe I’ll keep going with this farce now?”

It takes no effort at all for Bucky to keep is expression straight. Contrary to Steve, he has always been good at lying. And it would do no good for Steve to know that he has made his own plans with Colonel Rhodes, who promised to make the divorce papers vanish for now.

He had hoped Steve would take a bit longer to notice, so that his anger would have a chance to trickle out before they tackle that particular problem. Bucky just has to keep him from making things worse, like filing for divorce himself. That would not go over well.

“Maybe he doesn’t want things to be over between you,” he says cautiously, unsure of how far he can push this without Steve turning right around and cease talking to him for ‘collaborating with the enemy’ or some other nonsense. Steve has always had a flair for drama, which, or so Bucky believes, ties in directly with being a romantic.

“I’m not going along with his inane plan anymore.”

As often as Steve repeats variants of that, Bucky thinks he tries to convince himself of it more than anyone else.

“That’s not what I meant,” Bucky tries to argue, but is silenced when Steve glares at him, coming to a halt in front of Bucky. So much for hoping that Steve would calm down with time.

“No,” Steve snaps sharply, “you mean he suddenly wants me for more than to shove me at his parents. Which is where you are wrong.” He grimaces, likely at an unwanted thought crossing his mind. “I was convenient, nothing more. And now I want to be done with it.”

The thing is, Bucky can understand that perfectly. If someone is not good for him, he would want to get out as quickly as he can, too. It feels disloyal to push Steve farther, nonetheless. But the fact remains that Bucky thinks that, even if Steve and Tony are not meant for a relationship, they have still parted on the wrong terms, rendering their current misery absolutely unnecessary. If they deign to talk to each other again and agree that they will not work out, Bucky will gladly hold the door open for Steve to leave. But what they are doing here instead is ridiculous, throwing everything away because they argued, because they seem to be unable to talk openly to each other.

“You said yourself that Tony has problems communicating at times –”

“Let it go, Buck,” Steve cuts him off, like Bucky was the one bringing Tony up this time, like it is not Steve who cannot think of anyone else and is stuck on this problem of his own making. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. No need to remind me what an idiot I am.”

A last, painfully raw look at Bucky, and Steve is gone, leaving his best friend to stare after him helplessly. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bucky feels a headache coming.

He lies down on his bed, waiting for some minutes to give Steve the chance to come back. When nothing happens, he takes out his phone and dials Rhodey’s number. By now he does not even hesitate over it anymore. The way things are going, they really need to act.

 

* * *

 

Tony is bored. More than that. He is so tired he can barely stand, and still vibrates with energy, borrowed from caffeine and a number of energy drinks he did not dare look at too closely because they were served to him by DUM-E. For the fourth time in the past ten minutes, he enters his key code in the pad in front of his lap only do have a red ‘Denied’ flash at him.

He would groan, but moving his mouth might turn into words spilling out and he does not want to unload his woes on JARVIS, knowing the AI will only send him to bed. Again. He has already made a helpful trail of blinking lights directing him to his bedroom as a not very subtle reminder.

As he wanders back to the living room, he taps away on his phone but does not have any more success than the dozen times he has tried before. It is also on lock-down, allowing him only access to his contacts. Well, two of them. Pepper and Rhodey. He is not currently talking to Pepper and Rhodey is not picking up. A fine pair of friends he has.

Sitting down on the couch, he curses the softness of the cushions. They are calling his body to sleep, but his mind fights, kicking and screaming, against the urge. Maybe he has overdone it this time. Sighing, he looks out at the mess of papers strewn all over the table in front of him, filled haphazardly with equations and technical sketches. The lines are not quite straight anymore and the words have curious loops to them, stretching this way and that. Deciphering this in the morning will be more than annoying.

Tony grabs for a pencil nonetheless, intent on appeasing his mind by continuing to work. Only it does not help. Nothing does. He is sure not even sleep will, despite what everyone is trying to tell him. He knows what happens when he dreams in this state, and it is not kind.

Picking up his phone again, he tries calling Rhodey another time. He does not know why it is so important to reach his best friend, especially since he does not actually want to talk, but he needs to do _something_.

This time, Rhodey answers, sounding tired himself but also alarmed. Tony gathers it must be late.

“Who were you talking to?” Tony asks by way of greeting, in a rapid staccato of words tumbling over his lips.

This is normal, he tries to reassure himself – and maybe Rhodey, via the telepathic bonds he sometimes thinks they share. This is just his mouth not being able to keep up with his overactive brain.

There is a pause before Rhodey answers, telling Tony that Rhodey does not quite agree with his assessment that his behaviour is normal. But when he finally answers, his tone is neutral, reserving judgment for when he has more cause than just Tony’s eccentricities.

“What makes you think I was talking to anyone?”

So Rhodey is going to indulge him for the moment, instead of immediately diving into the reason for his call.

“You didn’t pick up.” Glancing at the window, Tony confirms that it is indeed dark outside and therefore late. “And you always pick up when I call at night.”

They had a discussion about his habits once or five times, which Tony mostly missed because he kept zoning out, but he thinks he remembers the bit about Rhodey making it a rule to only call at night in case of emergency.

“Maybe I just didn’t hear it,” Rhodey argues, and definitely rolls his eyes, “that can happen when people are asleep.”

“I already called seven times.”

A seed of panic starts growing in Tony’s brain. It is always there, but he usually manages to keep it down, but times like these he cannot. Times when Rhodey, his best friend – his _first_ friend if one does not count his butler – lies to him. Because Rhodey was not sleeping; _would_ not sleep through seven calls. Tony always fears their friendship to crash and die, always expects to be left behind. What can he offer Rhodey anyway, for him to stay?

Rhodey must have noticed that something is wrong, because this time when he speaks, his voice is decidedly cheerful. “Are you stalking me again?” he asks, then adds, mock-stern, “Tony, we talked about that.”

Over the years they have talked about so many things, mostly stuff that Tony does wrong or should take more care with. Most of the time, Rhodey manages to keep Tony believing that they are on the same side.

“I did not,” Tony protests, voice stretched thin, “Your phone remains safe from my hacking.” Much quieter, he amends, “For this week at least.”

“So,” Rhodey begins, turning serious all of a sudden, “why did you call seven times?”

_Because you didn’t pick up the first time,_ Tony thinks but does not say it. Instead, he searches for a way out of having to explain himself. Annoying Rhodey always helps.

“I just want to know about your life,” he whines, “like what you are doing and who you’re talking to.

“I though you weren’t interested in my work.” Rhodey’s tone is neither sharp nor accusing, but Tony winces nonetheless.

It is true, in a sense. He has a complicated relationship with war and the army, since it is a source of constant arguments between him and his father. And, since knowing Rhodey, he has learned about the impact of the weapons SI produces, which is not actually something he wants to be involved in. But all of that does not mean he does not want to know about Rhodey.

“You keep saying that but –”

“Tony,” Rhodey cuts him off firmly. Maybe it truly is too late for games. Or Rhodey just has other things on his mind than Tony’s whining.

“I’m bored, all right” Tony says nonetheless. He just puts it out there, despite realizing how ridiculous he sounds. Boredom is a dangerous state with a brain like his. And with that, he does not mean the genius part. “I’m running on nothing but coffee, and Pepper has thrown me out of the office and made sure that JARVIS won’t let me into the workshop. Or any tablet. Or my phone.” It is terrible, really, how much power his AI has now. Or rather, Pepper through JARVIS. “Working with pen and paper is so _slow_.” Especially with hands that will not do as they are told.

“Why did Pepper throw you out?” Rhodey goes right for the jugular.

Tony makes the mistake of hesitating before he answers. For someone as used to dealing with him as Rhodey is, that is an obvious tell that he is not going to tell the truth. Not all of it, at the very least.

“I guess I annoyed her.”

Rhodey sighs in that way that Tony hates because it sounds like he is running out of patience with him. “You always do.”

Which is true. “She said I needed to sleep,” Tony argues like that is a ridiculous notion.

Rhodey, naturally, agrees with Pepper. He usually does. “Then why don’t you?” he asks, all of the familiar lectures hidden in his tone.

“Coffee,” Tony says, which is the only explanation he is willing to give. Thankfully, it is also a part of the truth.

“And why are you on your phone when you are banned from all electronics?” Rhodey asks, sounding like an exasperated parent. And while Tony is good at acting like the unruly child, he does not think it is quite fair.

“You’re my emergency contact,” Tony says grudgingly.

He refrains from telling him about his argument with JARVIS, leading him to threaten he might just jump from the roof of the tower if he goes crazy from forced isolation. That might have been a tad too much, since JARVIS has been answering him very frostily after that, if at all, but no one quite gets how it is to live inside of Tony’s mind. How easily it spins out of control, leaving him barely any chance to brace for the inevitable impact.

“Tony,” Rhodey sighs, speaking his name with utmost gentleness, “why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Unfortunately, it does not work that way. Tony cannot just answer something like that, which would be akin to opening the box of Pandora.

“Why don’t you tell me who you were talking to?” Tony counters like the little shit he is.

“A soldier from another unit we’re collaborating with,” Rhodey finally says. It is plausible, and nothing in his tone is off, and still something is itching Tony, telling him there is more to it. “Now you.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Tony snaps, belying his own words immediately. “Why does everyone think something’s wrong?”

_Everyone_ being his best friend, his PA, and the AI he wrote to pick up these kinds of signs.

Without mercy, Rhodey ploughs on. “You’re slipping again.”

Tony has a dozen excuses ready, but does not manage to finish a single one. “I’m –” he starts, only to be interrupted.

“Did you have anything else to drink today but coffee?” Rhodey asks, stern but dreading the answer.

“I did not,” Tony says firmly, somehow finding the strength to keep his voice from trembling. There were the energy drinks, but he knows Rhodey is not asking about them but about alcohol. The urge was – _is_ – there; his eyes are wandering to his secret liquor cabinet. But he has not given in. Much softer, he adds, “You always seem to expect the worst from me.”

Tony is being unfair, he is very aware of that. If Rhodey expects him to make a mess of things, then that is because he has already done it before. Tony does not think much of sanity or healthy life decisions. On a subconscious level, he knows that his friends only want to help him, but in reality it sometimes seems like he has to fight them on top of everyone else.

“I don’t,” Rhodey says, slightly taken aback, although Tony refuses to feel bad for it. Things will be turned around on him soon enough. “It’s just that – you’re not sleeping or eating. You bury yourself in your work. You bow out of dinner with Pepper and don’t even bother to give excuses anymore. You look like you’re barely holding on, almost like,” Rhodey hesitates, indicating that there is more, and something that Tony will like even less, “almost like you did after holiday breaks at MIT.”

Tony flinches at the reminder. He had to spend most of these breaks at home with his parents, since he was not yet of age and his deal with Howard that let him go off to college was precarious enough to leave him not much room to argue. He had work to do for SI, press conferences and charity galas to attend to keep up the Stark name. It usually ended in shouting matches and the odd physical altercation. Each time he returned to MIT, Rhodey had to patch him up almost from the very beginning again.

Very quietly, Tony admits, “I was going to say that I’m not blaming you for expecting the worst.” He chuckles without humour. “But that was before I knew you had a list prepared.”

When Rhodey picked up the phone, there had been an opportunity for Tony to actually talk about what bothers him, to try and put it into words. Now, however, that opportunity has passed. He feels it almost like a physical loss, although he does not try to regain it.

“We worry about you,” Rhodey says, tone almost pleading for Tony to understand. But Tony cannot; does not think he ever will. Why would these two brilliant people care for someone like him?

“Well, don’t,” Tony quips cheerfully, not bothering to try and keep his voice from sounding fake. “I’m fine. Been never better. Howard bought the ruse. Or mum did, and she bullies him into giving me a bit of leeway.”

Which is all he wanted out of his deal with Steve anyway. So, victory all around.

“Tony.”

“Stop saying my name like that,” Tony snaps. All it does is remind him of the way Howard sneers _boy_ whenever he is displeased. Which he always is, these days.

“I don’t –” Rhodey starts, but Tony is done talking.

“I had better let you get back to work,” he says, ignoring Rhodey’s exasperated sigh. He never asked for them to feel responsible for him.

“Got to bed,” Rhodey all but orders, causing Tony to roll his eyes.

“Of course,” he lies, failing to keep his voice from turning into a snarl, “And don’t worry, I didn’t forbid JARVIS from contacting you if I decide to drink myself into a stupor first.”

Abruptly, Tony ends the call without listening to Rhodey’s protests. If he was being unfair before, this now is outright cruel, he knows that but he cannot help it. Rhodey is right, Tony _is_ slipping. He just does not want to be reminded of it, especially since he does not actually have a reason for it.

Steve and he had a deal. One which worked out perfectly, despite the slightly bitter tasting ending. It might have been better had they managed another meeting or two, but his parents are satisfied for now, allowing Tony some much needed time and peace of mind. Only that he does not have any. Not since Steve stormed off, acting like Tony was the one playing pretend. And especially not since the cheque came back, untouched and without so much as a note.

Tony just does not know how to take that, but he is not going to crawl after Steve when he is so obviously not wanted. Still, he cannot stop thinking about it. Although it is rather fortunate that things ended before he could fall farther down into a hole it would hurt very much to climb back out of again. Or before Steve started asking for things Tony is not willing to give, as they all do sooner or later.

Everything is as it should be. Tony repeats that like a mantra as he walks past his locked workshop, past the kitchen with its endless supply of coffee, even past the liquor cabinet, and to his bedroom where he lies down without bothering to take off his clothes.

“Everything is as it should be,” Tony echoes out loud, staring at the ceiling. If he only says it often enough, it might even feel like the truth at some point.

 

* * *

 

One afternoon, Steve sits at his desk, staring at all the paperwork he still has to do before the gallery opening, without moving a single finger to get started on it. He will regret that soon, but it is such an everyday hassle that he cannot find the energy for it. Not when his mind is still occupied with other things. At the same time, he cannot consciously do something else.

A ringing tone interrupts Steve’s circling thoughts, but that does not quite bring him back to the present either. This is the fourth time that Clint has called within the last hour. Bucky has probably snitched Steve out, telling their friends that he is sitting around at home, wallowing in self-pity. Not that he has been doing anything else lately. But Steve does not want to talk to Clint, does not want to hear about Lucky’s latest exploits or the rate with which Nat goes through their ice cream stock. He does not want _normal_ , because that is not something he is capable of feeling at the moment.

The call connects despite Steve not picking up. Natasha’s doing, he is sure. They have tried a hundred times to keep her out of their secrets and technical devices, but she just cannot stop being nosy. It is amusing when she uses it to blackmail Bucky into cooking for them. But Steve, being the one wronged now, does not feel like laughing.

Clint’s face pops up on Steve’s screen. They watch each other for a long moment – which causes Steve to miss his chance to back out of whatever brilliant idea Clint has come up with without a fight.

“All right,” Clint exclaims, giving no excuse for his annoying pestering of Steve. He looks rather determined, although he tries to hide it under a wide grin. He shows too much teeth for it to be believable though.  “I’m done watching you mope.”

“I’m not moping,” Steve shoots back immediately, sounding rather petulant. But he is way past bothering to prove his point. Ever since they came back from New York everyone has been assuming he has become either very fragile or thick-headed enough that they must try their best to smash his wrong beliefs with the heavy artillery.

“No?” Smirking, Clint leans back, pretending that he is going to indulge Steve’s mood. It is a lie. They all have their own opinion on what has happened with Tony, and they will not believe Steve when he says it is over and that it is better this way. “What do you call it then?”

Deciding to use his famed stubbornness to the last, Steve asks, “Call what?” No one said he would have to go easy on his friends, just because they stick to him through his every up and down.

Amused, Clint starts to count off on his fingers. “You’re not going out of the house anymore, other than when Bucky drags you to us, only to have you staring off into space instead of talking to us. You keep looking at your phone, when you used to barely remember you had one. You flinch anytime anyone comes even close to talking about New York or you hear news about Tony on TV.”

There are more reasons forthcoming, but Steve cuts Clint off. He has no interest in hearing about his recent failings. “This is nonsense.”

Up until now Clint has not said much about all the drama involving Tony, claiming that, because he has never spent any time with him, he cannot form an honest opinion. But to Steve it is obvious that Clint thinks he is being ridiculous. And the time of polite silence appears to be over now anyway.

“My thought exactly,” Clint simply says. “So, come on.”

“Come where? What are you talking about?”

Instant panic floods Steve’s system. His friends’ recent ideas to ‘help’ him had all been more or less about getting him drunk and into even more of a mess. Something along the lines of him being back on the market again, now that he has broken his self-imposed dry spell since Peggy, so he should go out and make the best of it. Nat had invited him out for drinks with some of her decidedly exhausting female friends. Clint proposed more alcohol than was good for all of them together, much less only Steve. And Bucky had variated between trying to get Steve to talk to Tony and getting over him.

“You’re coming to the range with me,” Clint says like there is any logic to it. “There’s no problem that shooting arrows hasn’t made easier for me.”

Which is certainly true. Steve cannot count how often they had to pry the bow out of Clint’s trembling fingers when the archer had personal problems to deal with – and did _not_ deal with them but preferred to shoot targets for hours on end.

“I don’t shoot,” Steve refuses, albeit very softly. This is as genuine as Clint gets, for he might make fun of everything but archery is sacred to him. But Steve has already tried to get the constant spiralling thoughts out of his head by spending too much time training until he was left a shivering mess, barely able to walk home from the gym. But exhausting his body does not mean that his mind will stay silent.

“And you don’t draw anymore either.” Clint shrugs, mentioning this rather offhandedly, like Steve has not drawn for as long as they have known each other, even when they were camping out in the dirt, expecting to be shot at any moment. “But your hands need something to do.”

Looking at his fingers, which are tapping impatiently on the desk surface, Steve cannot help but agree. He is going crazy inside his head, with nowhere to go that does not lead him right back to the very things that brought him to this point.

Still, he says, “I _can’t_.”

But Clint seems to think himself close to winning, because he leans closer to the camera, looking comically serious.

“Steve,” he all but reprimands, “last week a mother brought her five-year-old and I got him to hit the target. Don’t tell me you’ll let yourself be beaten by a kid.”

It would not be the first time, Steve thinks but keeps the words inside. Instead he tries, not very subtly, to distract Clint from the topic at hand. The archer loves gossiping about his students and, even more so, their parents.

“He must have been very determined then. Or just willing to please his mother so he could go back home.”

Now, if only Steve could find something to please his friends enough that they will leave him alone.

“This bleak outlook doesn’t suit you,” Clint comments dryly, not falling for the ruse. “You’re the one always expecting good of the world.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Steve mutters, “Well, you always said I’m a fool.”

“And you are.” Clint nods happily. “But that’s why we like you. And we’ve been suffering your bad mood for long enough now. So either talk to us – or better yet to Tony – or do something to get better.”

Why is everyone insisting that he make a fool of himself and go crawling back to Tony? They had said all there is to say. If there ever was a chance of something between them, it is gone now. Steve is not quite sure why, or whether it was his fault, but he cannot forget the expression on Tony’s face, cannot get over the complete silence. In truth, he cannot bear to remember his own words either. He regrets them now, although he is sure he would say them again. That anger was so real, so complete – there was never any chance of him bowing out quietly.

“You really want to take me shooting?” he asks, not hiding his scepticism. What would be better to distract Clint from Tony than if he thinks Steve is doubting the honesty of his offer, even if that means he might have to accept after all.

“The alternative would be to let Nat take you to training,” Clint says, grimacing slightly, “but I’m not sure you’d survive that. And we want you to come back to us.”

“Survive it?” Steve asks, surprised, “Nat’s taking yoga classes. I might not be as agile as she is but I’m sure I’d live.”

Clint looks at him with so much pity that Steve is taken aback for a moment. Nat _is_ taking yoga. She always regales them with ridiculous tales about the other women in her class. Also, she does not have any reason to lie. What else would she be doing?

“Of course she does,” Clint says in a tone that makes it obvious he is only humouring Steve. But then he shrugs. “Now, get on some shoes and a jacket. Leave your frown at home.”

“Clint, I don’t –”

“See you in ten.” Clint ends the call, leaving Steve to look only at his own reflection anymore. He looks tired – frowning as Clint had said. When he tries to smile, nothing happens.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath, not quite sure whether he means Clint’s idea or his own stupid behaviour. Probably both.

Despite his misgivings, he turns off his computer and gets up to find some clothes more suitable for going out than his comfort hoodie – as Bucky calls it – and sweatpants. He moves slowly, as if that will stop Clint from coming, and is still ready before his phone rings to alert him to come down. He allows himself a last self-pitying sigh, and then he leaves.

Under Clint’s close scrutiny and heavy teasing, Steve does shoot. He is not particularly good at it but it eases the itching heaviness in his fingertips, longing for pen and paper and a solution to all the problems that Steve is avoiding to think about; most of them involving one genius billionaire. Well, _all_ of them, really.

Afterwards, he is not necessarily feeling better, but lighter somehow. Maybe it is truly time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please consider telling me what you thought. Or if you want to help out by beta reading.  
> All the best to you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, and special thanks to [EdgyDaddies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgyDaddies/pseuds/EdgyDaddies) for helping me out to beta read this!  
> Enjoy!

The first time Steve sees his own face in a newspaper, he almost chokes on his coffee. He is already back home, has mentally told Tony and their whole disastrous idea goodbye, and just hopes to go on with his life. But there it is.

_Lovers’ quarrel_ , he reads, and _Where did Tony Stark’s mystery man disappear to?,_ and _Dream of settling down over?_

The picture shows them sitting in the small pizzeria Tony liked to drag him to, smiling at each other over pasta. They do not sit particularly close, they do not touch, and still the scene rekindles the longing Steve has pushed down so ruthlessly.

This is not what he wanted. Tony had warned him, yes. Somewhat at least. And anyone with half a brain could have told him this would happen. But reality is always different, harder. He wanted to help out Tony with his parents. He wanted to keep him for a while longer. And now he has ended up in the gossip section of the newspaper, barely a couple of weeks before the gallery opening. Who will take him seriously now?

Later, when he shows the article to Bucky, he claps his back and laughs a bit but Steve can see it in his face that his best friend is holding something back from him. Which he was right to do, as Steve later concedes, because he never wanted to know. But Nat takes one look at them when they meet for dinner that night and disappears into her room, only to bring back a stack of articles that she hands over without a word. Each and every one of them is about Steve and Tony, describing their _secret romance_ as _star-crossed lovers_ , puzzling about why no one knows anything about Steve. The reasons span from him being a _modest man_ to him being _only after the money and wanting to stay out of the spotlight because of it_.

Steve does not say anything and his friends do not bug him. He can barely explain to himself what he feels. Of course people would notice. Tony is notorious and they went out to eat every day for over a week, sometimes twice. Steve had read some of the articles about Tony, and he is sure the genius did not want even half of his shenanigans to end up in tabloids. But they did, and of course Steve is no exemption.

“Why’d you keep this from me?” he asks during dinner, despite expecting only more teasing from his friends. Why else would they keep these articles if not for emotional blackmail later on?

“You’d have only been difficult had you known,” Nat says matter-of-factly, barely glancing up from her pizza. The other two just nod along.

“What do you mean?” he asks, although he knows the answer. Privacy is a privilege. And one he has not had much experience with as a child, spending so much time under constant scrutiny in a hospital, his every cough and movement being recorded.

Bucky frowns at him. “Do you want to tell me that you would have continued to go out with Tony if you knew there were reporters watching you?”

Steve’s first instinct is to nod. The time with Tony was, no matter how it ended, worth quite a lot. Then he stops and looks at the pictures again, at his own face, and the things complete strangers have written about him.

“You would have wrecked things within minutes,” Natasha says, entirely non-apologetic. Sometimes Steve thinks his friends know him better than he does himself.

“And while we are supposed to think of Stark as a jerk right now, he doesn’t deserve you in full Captain mood,” Clint adds cheerfully.

_The first person you’re interested in since Peggy and you just let him go_ , Clint had said when Steve came back from New York, heartbroken but determined to forget all about this interlude. But when Steve wanted to argue, he had backed out. _It’s your life. You should know by now not to waste it._

“When did it start?” Steve changes the topic, unsure why he cannot let go of this. Probably because this is what still links him to Tony, even while they have not talked or written in weeks.

“Back in Las Vegas,” Bucky supplies helpfully before gesturing at the papers, “your ugly mug is on a double page somewhere in there.”

“Oh, yes,” Clint grins, “that’s the one where they speculate that you’re a hooker. It’s hilarious, really.”

Sputtering, Steve almost chokes on his bite of pizza. If this is true, he is ruined. How can he ever hope for proper representation with a reputation like that?

His appetite lost, Steve shuffles all the articles together before he gets up. “I think I’m going home,” he says rather tonelessly.

“The hell you are.” With an almost lazy motion, Bucky reaches out with his prosthetic and snatches up the papers, giving Steve no chance to keep them, even while Natasha pointedly puts another slice of pizza on his plate, saying nothing but regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

“You do realize this’ll blow over,” Clint says slowly. When thinking about his rather happy-go-lucky attitude, it is funny how often Clint ends up being the one to talk sense into them and keeps a calm head in emotional situations.

“The gallery opening is in two weeks,” Steve reminds them, verging on falling into a panic.

“And if they think your work is worth less just because you slept with Stark, it’s their loss.” Clint waves him off when Steve opens his mouth to protest. “If they give a shit about that, you don’t want to fall in with them anyway, because they’re unreliable. The art world is unstable enough to bind yourself to extra fickle idiots like that.”

Strangely enough, this does make Steve feel better. Not enough to calm his rapid heartbeat or soothe his worries, but he cracks a small smile. If only this were not his chance to get a foot into said fickle world, if it was not the first time someone other than his professors or friends thought he is good enough to deserve being seen by the world.

“It’s done anyway,” Bucky says, pulling Steve back down into his seat with his good arm while throwing the papers carelessly behind him where they rain down haphazardly.

“Could you please keep to littering your own flat?” Clint mutters in mock-anger, only to dodge the piece of pizza Bucky throws at him.

Natasha does not pay them any mind, too used to their antics – and she _could_ end any beginning food fight with barely a glare and a flick of her little finger – but stares at Steve in a way that tells him he will not like what is coming next.

“You could give them something real to talk about,” she says in that offhanded tone of hers that means she is being utterly serious.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, ignoring Bucky who starts snickering in obvious approval.

“You could invite Tony,” Nat answers simply, like all of Steve’s recent problems do not originate from getting involved with Tony. “Show up as a unit.”

Taken aback, Steve does not know what to feel about this madness other than instant horror. Unsure what else to do, he starts laughing, a rough, cutting sound that does not fit him at all but that is all he can manage if he does not want to run.

“She’s serious,” Clint says rather unhelpfully, as if the fact that none of them even crack a smile is not evidence enough.

“You are insane,” Steve mutters back but shakes his head decidedly when Bucky starts to protest.

And he means it. There is no way he can ask Tony to do that. Not even just because they have not been in contact for weeks. But also that is not what he wants their relationship to be: them using each other only for their own benefit. Ignoring the fact that they do not have any relationship to speak of anymore.

For the briefest moment, he allows himself to imagine it: himself at Tony’s side, finally showing Tony a finished piece of his, people watching _them_ together. From an objective point of view, Steve can appreciate that they are a piece of art themselves: dark versus light, tall and brooding versus approachable and smiling. It is not that easy, naturally. Opposites might attract but they barely build the groundwork for something stable or reliable.

And they are done with each other. Even if their radio silence is not proof enough, one glance at the tabloids shows that Tony is definitely over him, back to being the star of every party, different partner on his arm for each of them.

Not that Steve cares. He has, in any case, no right to it.

“Let’s watch a movie,” he then says, mostly to stop his friends from staring at him, trying to get him to talk. It will also be good to numb his mind with other people’s problems for a time. He is not deflecting, no. He just tries to move on with his life.

 

* * *

  

Steve does not move on, of course. In fact, he cannot help but go back every time he allows his mind to wander. Everything he sees is something he wants to talk to Tony about. Every time he uses his phone, he remembers how Tony’s hands have held it. Every morning when he wakes, he mourns that Tony is not there with him.

He should know better but he just cannot let go. It becomes an obsession almost, to scan for new articles about Tony, and every picture he sees hurts him because it is never the Tony he knows but that artificial persona, meant to please the masses and keep everyone at bay. Somehow, Steve has made it past that barrier. But instead of recognizing what he has had, he has thrown it all away.

The problem is, Steve has too much time on his hands. Until the gallery opening is over, he has asked for time off at the coffee shop he works and completely quit the diner job, hoping he could use the extra hours to get some more work done, in case the exposition works out in his favour. The only thing he manages to draw, however, is Tony: working, laughing, talking. It is almost like his mind cannot hold any image other than him. And if he tries to force himself to draw something else, the results are horrid, loveless and flat, if he manages to bring anything to paper at all.

Sitting at his desk, Steve reaches for his phone without conscious decision to do so. Even with all his friends, he feels lonely at times now. So, even knowing that it does not help at all with his supposed moving on, he scrolls through his chat with Tony, smiling at all the jokes even while knowing them all by heart. He is sad that he has not saved a voice message of Tony’s, because he has already forgotten the nuances of his voice. Oh, how he would love to hear him again.

Maybe his friends are not wrong in telling him that things between Tony and him do not have to be over, that it is possible to mend their relationship. He could call and they could talk. Steve is not too proud to admit, to himself at least, that he wants nothing more than that. A second chance.

Before he can find another excuse, Steve opens Tony’s contact information and presses the call button. Simple as that. Although there is nothing simple about it.

It takes Tony a surprisingly long time to pick up. It is a first that has happened, so when half a minute has passed without an answer, Steve is ready to end the call and think of this particularly stupid idea as dealt with. But no matter what his common sense tells him, Steve’s thumb does not move as directed and the ringing does not stop.

Even when the call connects there is a long minute of silence, and then, “Changed your mind about the check?”

It is Tony’s voice but that is all that is familiar about it. It sounds utterly flat, disinterested. It cuts Steve deeply, who cannot stop himself from remembering Tony’s laugh, the warmth of it, and the complete attentiveness whenever they talked. This Tony speaks like Steve is merely a bother, someone not worth his time but whom he nonetheless has to deal with.

At the same time, he remembers his anger upon leaving Tony’s car. How dare he suggest that Steve is calling just to get paid after all? How can he still think that about Steve?

“No,” Steve says rather vehemently, wondering where he finds the strength for it even while he feels drained of everything but sudden sadness. Much softer and mostly to himself, he adds, “This was a mistake.”

This time, he ends the call without hesitation and all but throws the phone down on his desk, his hands shaking with suppressed feeling.

He should think of his acquaintance with Tony as done with. It is obvious Tony has had no problems forgetting him or he would not have sounded like this. But – and Steve curses his mind for not being able to let this go – he remembers Tony hiding behind countless masks within a fraction of a second. Fake smiles, fake nonchalance, fake sneers. Tony is good at appearing who he is supposed to be and what he thinks will end up giving him the least trouble. So there is a small chance that Tony did not mean what he said and how he said it.

No, Steve thinks, chiding himself for falling down the same trap again. Mind made up, he makes to stand, but that is when the phone starts ringing. _Tony_ , it says, predictably, and Steve’s hands twitch but he does not reach for it.

He waits impatiently until it falls silent – taking far longer than he thinks he can bear – then sends off a text.

_Sorry to have bothered you._ And he is sorry, just not for that reason but for always clinging to things not meant for him.

_You’re not a bother_. Tony’s answer comes immediately but it feels like a lie, considering how Tony sounded just now.

The worst thing is, Steve can easily imagine all the other ways Tony could say those words; flirting, earnest, matter-of-factly. Not like it does not matter, like Steve does not matter. Although he probably does not. Never has.

Since Steve does not want to explain himself, he turns off his phone and puts it away in one of the drawers of his desk before leaving the room to find Bucky in the kitchen. Calling Tony was a mistake. Thinking this thing between them, whatever it was, could be salvaged was a mistake. Not being able to let go when there clearly is nothing to hold onto anymore is a mistake.

He cannot get Tony’s voice out of his mind for the whole night.

 

* * *

  

When Steve comes home the next afternoon, he has four missed calls and twelve messages from Tony. Steve wants to delete them but does not manage to when he catches sight of the latest message, sent in the middle of the night.

_Please answer, Steve. I’m sorry. If you don’t, I’ll try not to bother you anymore._

He should not but Steve feels bad reading that. He imagines Tony speaking his name like he used to and almost drowns in longing. It is stupid and can only end in disaster, but Steve does not want it to end at all, so he writes out a message before he can talk himself out of it again.

_I wanted to apologize_.

After what seems like barely a minute later, his phone rings. Steve picks up but does not say anything. Neither does Tony. It could be amusing; them turning to be silent at each other, but all it does is remind Steve of how easily they used to talk.

“Steve?” Tony then says, a far cry from how confident he used to say it, posing it as a question.

And Steve, the fool that he is, opens his heart in response. “I missed you.”

Tony does not laugh or snort or deflect. Instead, he answers, “I missed you too,” still in that small voice of his.

Then, at the same time, they say, “I’m sorry.” Still no laughter, no relief.

“I’m sorry for running out on you,” Steve tries again, needing to get it out, to make Tony understand that, while he still does not think he was wrong in leaving, he regrets how he has done it, eradicating all room for them to communicate.

“I was being an ass,” Tony counters immediately, sounding both apologetic and like he wonders how Steve could have expected anything less. “It was – you –” here he inhales deeply as if he has to brace himself for what he needs to say, “you were there with Jarvis and it felt nice, all right? It felt like you belonged there in that kitchen, alongside the only person who has ever given a single shit about me in that house. Jarvis liked you and Rhodey liked you, and my parents didn’t find you horrible. It felt _right_ , and then I remembered you had never said no to being paid for pretending to be that perfect guy my family could like.”

Steve has heard Tony talk for hours at a time, barely needing a break to breathe, but never has he sounded this honest, this desperate. It tugs at his heart, and while it does not make everything right again, it explains a lot.

“So you shut down,” Steve says, remembering how lost Tony looked after Jarvis left the room, how he avoided Steve’s eyes.

“I didn’t want it to be fake anymore,” Tony mutters so quietly that Steve barely manages to understand him.

But there it is, the very thing he has hoped for since their second meeting, since before they have kissed again even. Steve does not dare believe that Tony means it, not quite as much as Steve does, but right now he has a decision to make. Does he want a second chance? Despite feeling out of his depth in Tony’s world, despite having been hurt already, despite clinging to this too much.

He does not have to think about it much at all. “Then why don’t we try to make it real?”

It is too soon, too fast, too enormous – especially after they have both been hurt, but Steve is sure that there is no other time for this question. Not when they are barely holding onto each other anymore.

Silence on the other end, so profound that Steve fears for a moment that Tony is gone, but he does not dare call out. So he waits, unable to do anything else.

“Do you want to meet?” Tony then asks, sounding breathless and somehow so very young, a far cry from all the other ways Steve has heard him talk.

“I’m not in New York anymore,” Steve answers, trying not to be too dejected, because Tony wanting to see him is a good thing, surely, even if it is impossible for the moment.

“Give me your address and I’ll be there, just give me a few hours.”

And Tony can do it, Steve has no doubts about it, by whatever means his money can buy. Endless possibilities are a foreign concept for Steve, but maybe he will have to get used to it.

“All right,” he hears himself say, wondering how he can talk while his heart is barely stumbling along, wondering whether this is really happening, whether they are not just talking again but also planning to see each other, and so soon too.

He gives Tony his address and holds his breath until Tony says, “I’ll be there.”

And Steve can only hope he truly will.

 

* * *

  

Feeling rather foolish, Steve somehow manages to get Bucky to leave for the night, getting Natasha to lie for him in exchange for an unnamed favour – which is something they all usually avoid since Nat can be ruthless and unpredictable. Either way, it needs to be done because he does not want Bucky to witness whatever will happen. Whether Tony does come and they have their reunion, whichever way it will go, or whether Steve will be rejected a second time. He will have to deal with this alone.

As soon as he is alone in their flat, nervousness hits him like a sledgehammer. Their place is not up to Tony’s standards, even if Steve manages to clean it until Tony arrives. Also, what will they say to each other when they actually are together again? Maybe they are destined to clash, to be perfectly happy one moment only to fall out the next. Steve cannot deal with that. Not if they are looking at something long-term.

And again he is getting ahead of himself. _Long-term_ – when they have not managed to get along even for a short time.

But then, seconds or years after their phone call, the doorbell rings and all thoughts leave him, and before he knows it, Tony stands in their dingy hall, looking miserable and tired, wearing some worn band t-shirt and slacks with dress shoes, but holding a bouquet that he thrusts at Steve the moment he opens the door.

“I’m not good at apologizing,” he says by way of greeting, and that is when something bursts inside Steve. Clinging to the flowers, he doubles over laughing. It is more hysterical than amused, but it is unbelievably liberating.

Tony stares at him like he has grown a second head, unsure maybe whether he is being laughed at, but then he cracks a smile and, first reluctantly then all at once, joins in with Steve.

Later, Bucky will tell the story with flourish, like he has been there to see it, them laughing their heads off with nothing to show but a bouquet of roses and two broken hearts. But for now there is only them, breathless and strangely hopeful.

“Come in then,” Steve says once they have both caught their breath, staring at each other somewhat less apprehensive. “We can try it together.”

He walks ahead to the kitchen, very much aware of Tony trailing after him, and starts looking for a vase for the roses. He ends up using a water glass since they still very much have the poorly outfitted household typical for two constantly broke bachelors. Then he places the flowers in the middle of the kitchen table, fighting the urge to laugh again.

Not bothering to ask, Steve then starts to make coffee, gesturing at Tony to sit. Their silence does not weigh as heavily on him anymore, and they keep it up until Tony has a steaming mug in front of him, inhaling the scent with a small smile.

“Why’d you call me if not for money?” Tony asks, likely aiming for nonchalance but falling horribly short.

The question physically hurts Steve. How does Tony live his life if he always expects everyone he meets to have a secret agenda? To want him only for money or favours, never because of who he is.

Steve’s answer is important, so he makes sure to keep every trace of pain and uncertainty out of his voice. “Because I didn’t want to forget your voice.”

Tony looks very sceptical, but when Steve does not laugh, does not take back his words, hesitant surprise spreads on his face.

“My – bloody hell,” he then exclaims, never taking his eyes off Steve. “You truly are a romantic.”

Steve is not quite sure whether that is a good thing, since Tony says it with as much horror as fascination.

“So I’ve been told.” Steve smiles gently, thinking about his mother. “But I mean it, we’ve been talking so much in the short time we had, it was like I’ve known you all my life. And then it just stopped.”

Tony seems very determined to misunderstand him, because he leans back in his chair, holding his cup between them like a shield. “So you needed someone to talk?”

It is the easiest thing in the world to say, “I need you.”

Tony looks taken aback by that but not in an entirely negative way. More like he is not used to people telling him that and meaning it, so he does not know what to do about it. Almost absentmindedly, he takes his time to take a sip of his coffee, his fingers very still around the cup.

“Need as in present tense?” he then asks, voice hoarse, and avoids looking at Steve.

They must make for a ridiculous picture, sitting across from each other like diplomats hashing out the details of a treaty. The reluctance strangely fits Tony, even though he is depicted as a heartbreaker, going out with people one day only to throw them out the next. Romance has always seemed like a game to him, while Steve is the one usually taking things too seriously. He has been in love exactly once before and has been left behind so suddenly that his heart has still not stopped breaking over it, already fearing the next blow.

“I didn’t ask you to come only to break things off completely,” he says calmly. Steve almost reaches out with his hand, but then keeps is at his side. It seems imperative not to make any sudden movements. Not when they are still balancing on the edge here, not sure which side of it they will end up on.

“Well,” Tony shrugs apologetically, “you do seem like you’d prefer doing that in person.”

For a moment, Steve wants to protest, wants to say he is not that cruel. But then he notices the small smile tugging at Tony’s lips, indicating his words were not completely serious.

“I only do that with people who’re in the same time zone like me.”

They share a grin, at which Steve could almost pretend that nothing bad has happened between them. But Tony still looks like he does, exhausted and ready to admit defeat, and Steve feels exactly the same.

“We are idiots,” Steve sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture as awkward as he feels. Not all is well, but nothing in Tony’s posture or words has indicated that he was any more serious about what he said in the car during their last meeting as Steve was. Angry, perhaps, and overwhelmed, but not dismissive, not uncaring.

“Funny,” Tony says, wearing small smile, “Rhodey always calls me that. Maybe next time I won’t protest so loudly.”

“And maybe I’ll believe Bucky when he tells me I’m shit at communicating.” And Bucky would have a field day if Steve ever told him so, so he had better keep it very quiet.

For a moment, it seems like Tony is going to keep up the joking but then he sobers, staring intently at his hands before he meets Steve’s eyes.

“So, what you said on the phone,” he asks, the very picture of reluctance, “do you mean it?”

Steve had said a lot of things, but the most important ones were that he is sorry and that he wants to try his hand at a relationship again. Somehow he does not think Tony wants to be assured that their apologies are real.

“I was hoping for it from the very beginning,” Steve says, his heartrate picking up. “You just didn’t seem up for it.”

Smiling ruefully, Tony looks like he wants to hide. “I would never have expected – you know.”

“I did kiss you,” Steve points out. Maybe, he thinks, his friends are right and the two of them really are just giant idiots, dancing around their points and never coming to a conclusion because they are just too frightened to actually take the step together.

“Most people who kiss me want me for nothing more than that and a night to talk to all their friends about.” Tony’s voice is dismissive but it does not take a genius to see that he cares about this more than he pretends to. And it is such a sad thing to, to be reduced to the number on his bank account and the fame behind his name.

“Well, I can’t promise not to talk to my friends,” Steve says, deliberately light, “but I’d like that to be more about disgusting couple things, so maybe they’ll stop reminding me they wanted me to call you much earlier than this.”

This, too, surprises Tony. “They did? I thought they’d be on your side,” Tony says, obviously deflecting as Steve had noticed him wincing at the mere possibility of them becoming a couple.

Steve decides not to insist on his point. He has a feeling things might continue to go slowly with the both of them, if only so they can keep reassuring each other every other step.

“They always tell me when they think I’m an idiot,” Steve answers good-naturedly, knowing full well that Rhodey at least has no qualms about doing the same to Tony.

“So what? They approve of –” Tony gestures helplessly between them, “this?”

“I don’t need their approval,” Steve says firmly, needing Tony to understand this, “but as a matter of fact, they do.”

Silence falls between them, but it does not feel suffocating, not like the calm before the storm. A decision has already been made, or so it seems, even though they have not yet said the words, and convincing themselves of it might take a lot of time. But as long as they are moving together, they have all the time in the world.

Finally, Tony smiles. It is just the merest upturn of his lips, but to Steve it is more blinding than any full-out smile Tony wears for cameras. “Are we trying to do this then?”

“Yes,” Steve says immediately, and breathing has never been this easy. “Although we should start fresh, don’t you think?” Almost giddy due to how light he feels, he holds out his hand. “Hey, I’m Steve, stubborn idiot and artist.”

Tony’s cup clatters when he puts it carelessly down on the table, grabbing Steve’s hand with urgency. His eyes are very bright, easily outshining his grin. “I’m Tony, genius, millionaire and also your husband.”

“In that case,” Steve says as they part, “may I invite you to dinner?”

Without missing a beat, Tony says, “Only if you kiss me first.” Startled, Steve laughs, causing Tony to add, “I mean, we do seem to do things backwards. Might as well keep at it.”

It is not quite obvious whether he is joking or feels the need to make sure Steve is here with him and real as much as Steve does in reverse. Kissing might not have been the way Steve would have suggested to do it, but he does remember the feeling of Tony’s lips on his and the desire it created. It is nigh on impossible not to crave that.

“May I touch you?” Steve then asks, keeping his voice gentle as to not put any pressure behind the question. It might be a bit too much, especially since Tony has just now asked him for a kiss, but he has learned already that Tony does not always mean what he says and Steve does not want to muck this up by impatience.

Staring incredulously, Tony nods. He looks uncomfortable – not with the prospect itself but with the question, like he has never been asked before, like he is not used to giving explicit permission.

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Steve gets up slowly and makes small steps around the table, both to gather courage and to give them a chance to bow out if they need to. This is not easy for either of them. All the while, they never stop looking at each other, brown meeting blue, swirling with a hundred questions and fears and hopes. After Peggy, Steve has almost given up on thinking anyone would ever look at him like this.

Once Steve stands in front of Tony, he reaches out to cup his cheeks, thumb trailing Tony’s jaw, which unclenches gradually.

“You are beautiful,” he says, almost absentmindedly, lost in the way Tony’s lashes seem to go on forever and how his lips turn up into a reluctant smile. Then he bows down to press a kiss on Tony’s forehead. He lingers for a few seconds, savouring the contact, before drawing back. “Thank you.”

Then he turns back to the kitchen counter, almost missing the surprise on Tony’s face, although he decides not to comment on it. They do not have to address all their demons in one go. “More coffee?” he asks instead.

“Wait,” Tony says, reaching out as if to hold Steve back, but he is not quite committed to the motion, afraid maybe of how he will be received, so his hand hovers uncertainly in the air. “That’s it?”

In turn, Steve keeps his movements steady, pouring fresh coffee and putting a cup into Tony’s hand, like this is what they have been going for all along. “Did you think I was going to fall back into bed with you right away?” he asks, chuckling.

“Well,” while still looking somewhat put off, Tony seems mollified by the coffee, “I mean, I wouldn’t have been completely against it.”

“I want to do this properly,” Steve says, keeping his eyes firmly on Tony’s, because this is important. He does not want them going into this with different expectations, different hopes for the outcome. Steve is not here for a quick roll and a couple of fancy meals. “This means, dinner first.” Then, to keep the mood from dropping, he adds, smiling, “I don’t put out on first dates.”

Slowly, the stiffness drains from Tony’s features as he realizes how serious Steve is. It is refreshing to see him this uncertain. Steve still wants to reassure him, hold him until there are no doubts left, but for once he is not the only one out of is depths. No matter how painfully they have come to this point, it is worth quite a lot.

“Only before the first date?” Tony asks jokingly, causing Steve to laugh, shaking his head fondly.

“Just that one time, and only because the offer was irresistible.”

In return, Tony grins. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

For a moment, he looks down at his coffee, lost in thoughts, but when he looks up there is new determination stitched into his features like he has made a decision. Holding his cup close, Tony gets up to join Steve at the counter, watching his hands as he reaches for a pan and knife. When they are both still, Tony leans slightly into Steve’s warmth. It seems like a mostly unconscious motion, which has Steve smiling.

“What can I do?” Tony asks, sounding as tired as he looks, barely keeping himself upright now that the emotionally testing part of the evening is over.

“You look like you need a shower,” Steve counters gently, although he does not want Tony to leave, even for a few minutes.

“Is that the polite way to tell me I’m smelling?” Tony makes a motion to sniff at his armpits but aborts it halfway through when he bumps against Steve, preferring to keep up the contact. “Sorry. I pulled an all-nighter in the workshop.” Looking sheepishly, he adds, “Could have been two nights too.”

Steve looks on in obvious disapproval, even while he hopes his call has not been the reason for Tony staying up. He knows that he has slept very badly himself. “Go,” he orders, “towels are in the bathroom cabinet. If you need fresh clothes, my room is at the end of the hall to the right.”

Looking reluctant to leave, Tony pouts but drowns his coffee, which is as clear an indicator as any that he is going.

“I’ll see what I can make us for dinner until you’re back,” Steve adds, hoping food will add to Tony’s motivation.

Still, he does not move a finger as he watches Tony shuffling off. Even tired and in slightly less representable form than usual, he is gorgeous, and Steve can barely believe his luck that Tony is actually here.

Cooking and waiting for Tony to get ready feels strangely domestic, more so than it ever has with Bucky, since they were only ever scraping along, making things up as they got there. Now, Steve has somewhat more of a purpose.

While he cuts vegetables, he listens to the sound of the shower, of Tony traipsing through his flat. He imagines which clothes he will choose and how he will look in them. Heat rises into Steve’s cheeks but he only chuckles at it. He is allowed to think that now, with them giving a relationship a go.

He is afraid, of course, that Tony will quickly lose interest. Nothing about this life, about Steve is much of a catch. Tony has the world at his fingertips, while Steve stumbles along blindly, carving a way out of nothing. The fact remains that Steve is an optimist at heart, so even without him having anything to offer, he hopes Tony will stay.

When Tony returns, he still wears his own slacks but one of Steve’s sweaters too, in which he almost drowns. But it is soft and warm and exactly what Tony needs.

“You’re too big,” he mutters, walking up to the counter barefoot and almost as relaxed as he was in his parent’s kitchen.

“I think you look adorable,” Steve argues cheerfully, reaching out to squeeze Tony’s shoulder.

“Great, exactly what I was going for.” Tony grumbles but still stands a little straighter and pushes up the sleeves to free his hands. “Need any help now?”

“Talk to me,” Steve says simply, because that is what he has missed most. “Tell me what you are working on at the moment.”

Tony narrows his eyes like he is going to protest, but when he looks at Steve, he must have found something to tell him that Steve’s request is completely earnest. With a shrug, he leans back against the counter, close enough that he can reach out for Steve whenever he wants, and then he talks. Steve, in response, does not stop smiling for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to make everyone suffer for a bit longer, but I'm working two and a half jobs at the moment, so I needed something verging on happy.  
> Thank you for reading! Consider telling me what you think about it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. Here I thought you'd all want out wo idiots to suffer a bit longer, but no. Well, have some more fluff!  
> Special thanks to [EdgyDaddies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgyDaddies/pseuds/EdgyDaddies) for doing a wonderful job of erasing all my silly mistakes again.

They never make any concrete plans but Tony ends up staying with them, making no mention of when he is going to leave; is in fact actively trying not to think about it.

Bucky shows himself surprised when he comes home and finds a billionaire lounging on their threadbare couch, but he grins in a way that tells Steve he has been hoping for this to happen all along.

Tony in turn very much does not believe it when he learns that Bucky is going to culinary school – and who could blame him, long hair and metal arms do not actually mix with cake batter and five-course meals – but he ceases his half-hearted protests the first time he tastes something Bucky made.

“Marry me,” he says, eyes closed and wishing he could stay forever in this flat and grow fat and happy.

“Polygamy isn’t a thing here,” Bucky says, smirking, “also I’ve set my eyes on a different prize.”

“Better than me?” Tony cries out in disbelief, almost blowing his act when he sees Steve nodding along earnestly. “Wait, you don’t mean the redhead, yes?”

“How’d you know that?” Steve asks surprised. “You haven’t even officially met her.”

“Please,” Tony waves him off, “the way they looked at each other was rather obvious.” Then he turns back to face Bucky, grimacing, his blasé attitude gone. “But she is terrifying.”

Bucky, in turn, only smiles in utter satisfaction, like terrifying is the only thing he would ever go for. “Yes,” he says.

Steve, meanwhile only shrugs, having long ago given up on trying to make sense of his best friend. “I’d say you get used to it but you never really do.”

“Pepper would love her.”

The words are spoken nonchalantly but something in Tony tenses, even while his eyes turn hopeful. One part of not making plans is that their worlds have not yet touched, Bucky being the exception. Their friends do not know each other; they have not ventured much out of Steve’s apartment. If they are anything together, they are so only to each other.

Of course, Bucky is not one to let things rest. One night, when they are all in the living room, Bucky in his favourite, threadbare armchair while Steve and Tony are on the couch, Bucky says, “So you’ve moved in then?” It is not quite a question and his voice is not sharp, but it feels like the words make the floor drop away beneath them.

Immediately, Tony stiffens in Steve’s arms, growing heavy and yet like he is only a moment away from bolting. Over the crown of dark hair, Steve glares at his friend and mouths _What are you doing?_

Things between him and Tony have been evolving to the point where they are comfortable with each other, but it has not solidified enough to allow conversations like this. Whenever they do not touch, their relationship feels like a wondrous but tentative thing, not quite there and prone to dissolve if they do so much as think a wrong thought. The mere mention of permanency when they have not yet found steady ground to stand on could cause everything to fall apart.

“Don’t look like that, Stevie.” Bucky turns his frown into a smile, although there is no way he could have fooled Tony, who is better at this game of hiding than maybe even Natasha. Still, he makes an amiable effort to undo his misstep. “You know I need a list of allergies and preferences if you want me to keep cooking for you.”

Amiable effort, however, does not mean it is anywhere near enough to work out. Steve closes his eyes in anticipation of Tony’s reaction. There is no actual use in pretending that Bucky did not just make a horrible attempt at lying his way out of this.

Tony straightens as much as he can without leaving the comfortable cocoon of Steve’s arms. “That’s not where you were going with that question,” he says, voice somehow small and firm at the same time, like he does not want to have this conversation but will go through with it nonetheless.

“Are you calling me a liar?” Bucky jokes weakly, a sliver of panic in his eyes as he glances at Steve.

Tony’s face is hidden from Steve, but he can imagine the expression the genius wears; this horrible bland of flat and defeated, only hinted at beneath carefully applied neutrality.

“I’m sorry for just invading your home like this.”

This is it, Steve thinks for the hundredth time. This is when Tony will get up and leave, because the effort to make this work is just too much.

Bucky’s face falls too, but when he speaks it is with the same kind of gentleness that he uses when he is talking Steve out of a panic attack. “This isn’t where I was going either.”

“Then what?” Tony all but snaps, still quiet but with a tremble in his voice that Steve only notices because Tony is still leaning against his chest, no matter how tense.

Sighing quietly, Bucky shrugs at the ceiling, almost like he is apologizing to someone who is not there with them. “Rhodes called me,” he finally admits. “He wanted to know whether your silence is a good thing or if he has to come banging down our door for hurting you.”

The short silence that follows is accompanied by utter stillness of the two men on the couch. Steve is astonished that their two friends have apparently been communicating, but more than that he is worried about how Tony will take it.

“Rhodey called you?” Tony echoes questioningly. He is calm for now, but Steve knows a little of how his brain works by now, so he needs to do something to keep the genius from reaching his own conclusions without asking for clarification.

“You know each other?”

Across from them, Bucky takes a deep breath. He must know that they are on dangerous territory here, and he does not want to ruin things. Finally, though, his lips curl into a small smile. “Where do you think your divorce papers disappeared to?”

In a strange way, it makes sense. That long period of time where they did not move forward but did not break off completely. Steve had wondered why Tony would hold on to their fake marriage even when they were so obviously done. And despite his friends constantly nudging him to resolve the situation, he had never once thought that they could be involved.

Tony lets his head fall back, turning so they can look at each other. His expression is incredulous but also unsure whether they are supposed to be angry with their meddling friends. But these friends are a large part of why they are here now, lying intertwined on the couch together, safe in each other’s arms.

“So what did you tell him?” Tony asks after what feels like an eternity. His tone is still mostly cautious but some of the tension has left his frame, suggesting that they are not headed towards an unpleasant end.

“That I never knew I was glad about Steve’s single status until he started making out with someone in plain sight,” Bucky answers promptly, a tentative grin on his lips. He laughs when he notices Steve blushing. “That I haven’t had a decently horrid coffee since someone upgraded the machine to the point where I don’t know anymore where the beans go in and the coffee comes out. That I now have not one but two unreasonably handsome men traipsing around half-naked in my home, making me question my sexuality. That the both of you are idiots, constantly holding back because you’re waiting for the next disaster.” Here Bucky pauses briefly, grin turning into something more sombre. “That I’m confident that you’re getting there because the way you look at each other leaves no doubt that you’re both equally in love.”

 _Love_. Steve is not sure he has heard right but the word echoes in his ears; Bucky’s voice is not teasing for once but utterly serious. Love. Steve fancied himself in love before; with Peggy of course, but also at the beginning of something greater with Tony, back before they had hurt each other. It is a small word for such a big thing; incomprehensible and frightening.

For a moment, it feels like Tony is going to withdraw after all, to shake off Steve’s arms and run. Purely out of instinct, Steve tightens his hold because, yes, he is waiting for disaster and he truly does not want it to strike. But he has no right to keep Tony from leaving if he wants to go, which is a hard lesson to learn. Life can take everything they have at a moment’s notice, so they should appreciate what they have without smothering it. With a lot of effort, Steve relaxes his arms. He does not let go completely but keeps them loosely around Tony, making it clear that he will accept Tony’s decision, no matter what it is.

Tony himself hovers for a minute longer, tense and all but ready to jump up, but then he deliberately sinks back against Steve’s chest.

“What isn’t there to love?” Tony asks, lips moving comfortably around the most dangerous of words like he has secretly practiced it. “I know very well that Steve is too good for the likes of me, but that just makes me appreciate him all the more.”

Steve cannot help the grimace flickering over his face, glad that Tony is turned away from him again so he does not see it. Despite his efforts, he has not yet made any headway in curing Tony from his horribly lacking sense of self-worth.

Bucky watches them curiously. “As a good friend, I’d agree with you right now, but I don’t like it when people sell themselves unnecessarily short.” As if they have not done that too, after coming back from the war, feeling lost in a world that used to be theirs. It is so very hard to feel secure and valuable when one has not found a place to belong to. Looking at them pensively, Bucky adds, “Maybe you two do deserve each other.”

That is such a strange thing to say that no one knows how to answer at first. Tony recovers first. Maybe because he has always been uncomfortable with silences or because he has been taught not to let them stand for too long, lest someone use it against him.

“That does not sound entirely positive.”

Bucky merely shrugs. “You both need projects,” he says without actually explaining anything. When all that earns him is confused stares, he elaborates. “Steve gets someone with crippling self-doubt to build up, and Tony can coax our resident wallflower out of his shell.”

There is a ring of truth to the words – of course there is – but they are also unnecessarily to the point, more like something Natasha would say, who always analyses people.

“Win-win all around,” Bucky adds cheerfully, “you can thank me by not keeping me up all night again.”

Steve feels uncomfortable and thinks Tony looks the same, but this time they do not move even an inch from each other. Positioned like this their faces do not meet, allowing them the privacy of processing the possible truths of Bucky’s statement on their own even while they are not alone. Still, the atmosphere in the room is only a moment from becoming brittle when Bucky starts laughing, maybe a tad too loud and mostly for their benefit.

“Just keep at it,” he says, tone genuine, “you’re good for each other. Don’t let me dropping the L-word deter you from that. It’s okay to need outside help sometimes.”

Everything that they have achieved by now happened with help from others. If not for Steve’s friends, he would have never gone to Las Vegas, would have never gotten drunk enough to talk to a perfect stranger, only to marry him and have sex in his hotel room. If not for a perfectly timed call from Mr. Stark, Tony would have never had the idea to drag out that marriage, to take Steve home, thus giving them more time to get to know each other. Without Bucky and Rhodes, they likely would have parted after that dinner with Tony’s parents, maybe moping but divorced and determined to never go back.

They definitely need the help, Steve can admit that, if only in his own mind. And if the way Tony sinks closer into his warmth is any indicator, he silently agrees.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, voice too cheerful for the recent choice of topic, “I do want that list of allergies and such. Need to know how to accidentally have you dropping dead if I ever see Stevie unhappy again.”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s phone rings when Tony is in the shower, for which he is rather glad, because there are reactions he would be hard-pressed to explain and the surge of irrational fear when a stern female voice on the other end of the line greets him is one of them.

“Mr. Rogers?” the woman says, only to fall abruptly silent while Steve tries to regain his bearings.

“Yes?” he asks more than confirms. He has never liked phone calls with strangers, since he prefers to look at people he talks with, if only to get a clue of what they think of him.

“My name is Virginia Potts. I am –”

“Pepper,” Steve interrupts her in surprise, blood shooting into his cheeks at his rudeness. Sheepishly, he adds, “Tony’s friend.”

A short pause ensues before Pepper says, “Yes.”

Her tone is both softer and still underlined with steel; a bit taken aback, perhaps, at realizing Tony must have told Steve about her. Steve guesses this is the wrong time to explain that there are days when Tony talks about nothing but his friends, voice tinged with awe for these people who suffer his antics voluntarily.

“But I’m also his PA,” Pepper continues, regaining her uncompromising confidence.

Holding the phone away from his ear, Steve listens for the running water from the bathroom, making sure that Tony is still occupied and unlikely to burst in on what promises to be a not wholly friendly conversation, if Pepper bringing up SI is any indication.

“So I guess this isn’t a courtesy call?” Steve asks when he is satisfied that he can talk freely. He is ridiculously excited at coming into contact with Tony’s other best friend. And nervous – mostly nervous. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you about your intentions regarding Mr. Stark.”

If not for her precise tone, Steve might have laughed. This is a question he would have expected coming from Tony’s parents – if they were behaving like proper parents at all – or even Jarvis, who seems to have taken on the role as a surrogate father to Tony. Hearing her call Tony by his surname too puts an interesting spin on their friendship.

“Are you always this formal?” Steve cannot help but ask, realizing how strange it must be to become friends with someone who is on one’s payroll.

“Someone has to be. And Tony isn’t, no matter that he is the heir to a Fortune 500 company.” A note of long-suffering impatience accompanies Pepper’s words that has Steve’s heart going out to both Tony, for being pushed into this world, and Pepper, who has to tackle the impossible task of keeping the genius on track.

“I guess you don’t want to hear that I love him?” The words slip past Steve’s lips easily, without conscious decision. He does not regret saying them, even though he would have liked Tony to hear them first. But something in Pepper’s voice is compelling him to be completely honest. It could be the desire to get her approval, or simply the chance to just say it.

“It would certainly help if I could believe it,” Pepper says, at once soft and demanding, unwilling to let him off that easily.

Steve thinks he understands her reservation. He cannot believe himself how he ended up here, how a string of coincidences and dumb luck led to him getting the chance to love Tony.

“But you don’t.” Steve smiles, although there is a slightly bitter taste in his mouth. Who could believe their story?

“I’m not paid to accept anything but facts.” Pepper’s tone grows gentle, but there is still no mistaking in what function she is calling him: not as Tony’s friend but as an employee of Stark Industries. He wonders whether the two are not sometimes mutually exclusive.

“So what do you want me to do?” Steve asks, thinking that she will have a prompt answer. Instead, he is greeted by silence; a confused thing, like Steve is not what Pepper expected either.

When she speaks next, her tone is utterly devoid of the business-like directness but more honest somehow, real.

“Have you told him?”

Talking about feelings is rather difficult with people who have learned to run from them. Steve thinks they are not doing so badly, considering this, but he knows as well as Pepper does that it would not be the best idea to just come up to Tony and say _I love you_.

“Not in so many words,” he says, sure that she will understand. Still he adds, “I don’t think either of us is ready to put a name on things.”

With Tony, everything has layers, everything can mean several, superficially contradicting things. It might not be ideal but Steve prefers hanging in limbo to allowing definitions to keep them from growing the way they naturally would.

“But you’re sure?” Pepper asks, causing Steve to grimace because he has not been sure about anything since growing up while going out to fight a war. Well, nothing but his family, and it might be too soon but he can figure Tony becoming a part of that.

Holding back a sigh, he says, “I know how I felt when we were together and how it felt when I left.” He does not know when it has happened, but he does not blame Tony for his part in driving Steve away. They are both insecure and Steve knows he has a habit of jumping to conclusions. “I know how wondrous it is to be given a second chance. I think I’m as sure as I can get.”

Pepper hums in what he hopes is approval, although he cannot imagine anyone understanding what is going on between Tony and him. Love is not supposed to be this complicated. How does everyone else manage to find each other and stay together and build a life worth living if there are always this many obstacles in the way? The human race is resilient, and some things are worth every pain, but love is always depicted as something natural, the best thing in the world, so why does it hurt?

“And the money has nothing to do with that?” Her question catches Steve off guard, although she asks it in an almost perfunctory tone, like she does not feel it is necessary but has to voice it nonetheless. He does not hold it against her.

“I did not even know who he was until my friends told me.” _After_ he had already began falling for Tony. “And to be honest, I don’t really like the billionaire. I just want Tony, nothing else.” Briefly, he wonders whether this is too much to reveal, but she is asking for the truth and maybe she deserves it too. Feeling bold, he adds, “I’ll sign something if that would make you feel better.”

“You’d do that?” Pepper does not sound as surprised as she may have had at the beginning of the call, and Steve counts that as a win.

Still, he argues. “You should talk it through with Tony first. You probably know better than I do that he doesn’t like his choices being made for him.” There are still a lot of things he has to learn if he wants to successfully navigate this relationship but Steve understands the need for independency. He would never deny Tony that.

When Pepper speaks next, it feels like he has passed a test of sorts, just like when Rhodey started looking at him not with bland amusement but something like respect. He does not know why or how but he is glad for it nonetheless. These are the people who want the best for their friend and if they approve of Steve, he cannot be doing everything wrong.

“Mr. Rogers.” The formality sounds natural, not a practiced thing to implement distance.

“Steve, please,” he says nonetheless, thrilled when she does not protest.

“All right, Steve.” Her voice sounds like she is smiling. “Why don’t we schedule a dinner with Tony, so we can meet properly.”

Steve thinks of Rhodey saying he would like to meet again, and Tony predicting that Pepper and Natasha would get along. It feels so very within reach then, them becoming a true family. All of them.

“I’d love that,” Steve says and means it with every ounce of his being.

It is only when he puts down his phone that he notices Tony standing in the doorway, hair dripping wet and clad in a fluffy bathrobe, making him look so very young that Steve has to push down the urge to pull him into his arms and never let go.

“Are you already having an affair?” he asks, pointing at the phone, “it’s a good thing then that I haven’t unpacked much more than my toothbrush until now.”

Tony’s smile never once wavers but there is also something reluctant in his tone, a distance that Steve has not yet managed to cross, which is Tony’s last line of defence.

Patting the place next to him on the bed in an obvious invitation, Steve says, “Pepper called me.” He keeps his tone even, purely informational, to soothe Tony’s worries and to avoid any misunderstanding.

And, true enough, the line of Tony’s shoulders drops into a more relaxed position as he steps further into the room, flopping down next to Steve.

“Did she read you the riot act?” he asks with a grin, which Steve thinks only fair. Rhodey had been roped into helping Steve out before he could really gauge whether Steve is actually worth that help. At least one of Tony’s friends has to give him the shovel talk. And Pepper, he guesses, is more than up for the task.

“Kind of,” Steve says, growing sombre, afraid of how Tony is going to take this. “She’s afraid I’m only after your money.”

For all Steve knows, Tony still thinks the same. That Steve is in for the excitement but, once things calm down, he will be like all the rest, staying only for what Tony can buy him.

“Of course she is.” Tony rolls his eyes, patting Steve’s arm absentmindedly. He seems neither surprised nor displeased. “That’s not what I’m paying her for but she’s taken to it easily nevertheless.”

Tony, with his apparent carelessness, does seem to need all the help he can get, and Steve knows he is glad for his friends, no matter that he thinks they are hopelessly overestimating his immaturity.

“I asked her to talk to you first,” Steve says, because that is an important point to make. As much as Pepper needs to know that Steve will not go over Tony’s head, Tony needs it much more.

Something flickers over Tony’s face that could be gratefulness, but then he twists his features into a grimace. “Great,” he whines, looking wide-eyed at Steve, “you do realize that she will think of you as a responsible adult now and will attempt to team up with you against me every step of the way?”

Steve understands this as the thanks and apology it is, and grins at Tony in sudden mischief. “Someone has to,” he quotes Pepper, guessing correctly that he is not the only one she uses that line on.

Tony gasps, grasping his chest. “I created a monster,” he cries, sounding rather pleased with himself.

And while Steve cannot actually disagree, he asks for clarification anyway. “Pepper, me or yourself?”

Rather haughtily, in a way that painfully resembles Howard Stark, Tony straightens. “All three, of course. I don’t limit myself to only one thing.”

Overwhelmed with the sudden need to smooth the traces of his father from Tony’s face, Steve pulls him in and presses kisses on his forehead and the corners of his mouth.

“I’m glad,” he all but whispers, not afraid of the admission but wanting to keep it between themselves too. “I’d rather be your monster than the lonely bore I was before.”

Tony frowns, looking ready to argue, but then relaxes into Steve’s touch, melting against him like that is the only place he ever wanted to be.

“Happy to oblige.”

 

* * *

 

One morning, Steve wakes up alone. Tony’s side of the bed is cold and empty, which has Steve worrying at once. Each time that Tony is out of sight, he thinks that, somehow, everything was a dream; him picking up his phone to finally call, Tony coming here, them getting a second chance at being together.

Neither of them slept much the first few nights, regularly checking whether there truly is someone else lying next to them. They laughed about it once sunlight filtered into the room, taking some of the crushing quality out of their fears. But whenever darkness turned their bodies into mere suggestions, they needed to reach out, feel the exhilaration of skin touching skin.

So, with Tony gone, Steve feels instantly lonely, causing him to get up restlessly. There are some of Tony’s clothes strewn across the floor, but not even that offers any reassurance. If he wanted to leave quietly, he would not bother to take things with him that can be easily replaced.

Distantly, Steve thinks it is ridiculous that his heart is beating wildly as he leaves the room in search for Tony, and embarrassing that he can barely hold back a sigh when he finds the genius sitting at the kitchen table, bowed over his tablet.

“Tony,” he breathes, not quiet enough to go unheard.

Tony’s head whips up and his lips curl automatically into a smile. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Why are you already up?” Steve asks, unsure how to phrase the question without being either accusing or hinting at his brief panic.

Thankfully, Tony does not take offense. “Obie called last night.” He shrugs but does not hide his grimace and Steve takes that as a testimony of how far they have already gotten if Tony feels comfortable to admit to his problems with his father and godfather somewhat openly, not with sarcasm but actual emotion. “He reminded me that I have work to do, and since I couldn’t sleep anymore I decided I could get right on it.”

Steve walks closer into the kitchen, gets himself a cup of coffee and refills Tony’s without bothering to ask.

“I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly as he slides into a seat across from Tony, careful to not disturb the array of notes laid out around the genius’ place. “I guess I’ve been keeping you from it.”

“Nonsense,” Tony chides with unexpected firmness. “Don’t ever apologize for giving me a reason to take a long overdue vacation.

Steve does not like the term _reason_ ; it puts a definable perspective on things. For now, Tony and he just _are_ ; there is no because, no explanation, no rules. Tony does not mean it that way, probably thought it flattering too, so Steve does not respond to it. Instead, he leans forward and gestures at Tony’s work.

“Can I help?” He half expects Tony to wave him off and laugh. Because what could a mediocre art student actually do to help him? To prevent any awkwardness, he shakes his head and quickly adds, “I mean, do you want to work in my room? My computer’s not up to your standards, but it might be more comfortable than hunching over your tablet.”

Judging on the way Tony looks at him, he knows exactly what Steve has just done, possibly even why, but he does not call him out on it. “I won’t chase you out of your room,” he says instead, in a tone that suggest he is not used to people offering up their space to him. And, thinking of Mr. Stark, Steve is sure that he does not take well to sharing.

“That’s all right,” Steve smiles, taking care to sound utterly convinced as to not leave a crack for Tony to exploit and talk himself out of this. “I need to get some work done too, if you don’t mind me painting in the corner.”

Which is the absolute truth. Ever since coming back from New York, he has done very little, neither for his courses nor for the gallery opening. First he spent all his time moping, then Tony was there, offering something real instead of just canvas and paint.

Still, it is also an excuse to watch Tony work. He has spent the past week looking for always new nuances in Tony’s expression, revelling in seeing him doing everyday things: stumbling half-awake through the kitchen, shaving in the mornings, snuggling into one of Steve’s sweaters while watching a thunderstorm. For the very first time, Steve is afraid that he will not be able to capture the way the light catches in Tony’s eyes, or the way his lips purse when he tries – and usually fails – to hold back an inappropriate comment, or how his whole body angles towards Steve when Tony listens to a story, letting nothing in the whole wide world distract him. It is a ridiculous fear, because the real Tony will always be better than whatever Steve manages to put on paper, but this is how he makes sense of the world: by drawing it and spending hours on getting the lines and colours just right. Tony remains an enigma, no matter how often Steve’s fingers draw him, but somehow Steve likes him all the more for that.

Steve insists on making them breakfast, which means he takes out the pancake batter Bucky prepared for them before he left for work – accompanied by a note so they will not forget that there is someone else living in their flat, even if they prefer to live in their own world for now – and Tony suffers his mothering with a pleased smile. Steve has gotten clear instructions from Rhodey to make sure that Tony eats regularly, and he has taken to it eagerly.

It is almost funny how easy they fall into a routine, moving in the kitchen like they have always done so. Tony spends most of the time doing the dishes complaining, and promises to build them a robot for that, but takes the dripping plates happily from Steve to dry them. It is all so domestic that Steve has a hard time explaining how they got here, especially considering where they came from; two drunks in a bar turning into this.

When they retreat to his room, Steve picks up his palette and brush without hesitation, not bothered by the additional person in the room, even while he usually hates being watched while he paints. He guesses he makes a lot of exceptions for Tony.

For hours they work, interrupted only by Tony talking to himself and Steve humming quietly under his breath, sometimes they have absentminded conversations, trailing off before they come to a conclusion but satisfied with it nonetheless. Every now and then, Steve allows himself to look up and take in Tony, the way he leans towards the screen like it holds the answers to all the questions he can think of asking, fingers alternating between tapping out unheard thoughts and scribbling down equations. He is utterly beautiful.

One of these times, he finds Tony looking back at him, attention fixed solely on him – or rather his hands. Watching Tony watch him brings, in a way, a whole new intensity to their relationship. For once, everything Steve feels is completely, visibly reciprocated. Smiling has never before been this natural.

When Tony notices he has been found out, he winces, destroying the magic of the moment. “I’m sorry.” Steve wonders when they will stop saying that to each other. “I don’t mean to be a creep.”

Unable to help himself, Steve laughs. “This might be the least creepy thing I have ever seen you do,” he says, thinking of how easily Tony switches character, how terribly inappropriate he is in all the worst kind of situations, how there is nothing he cannot turn into an innuendo. “Besides, I like watching you work too.”

This admission should be harder, but Tony has seen so many of his sketches already, has seen how often he is depicted there. It cannot be a secret that Steve likes to observe him.

“You do?” Tony asks nonetheless, half in wonder, half smugly, regaining some of his confidence.

“Of course. Ever since you fixed my phone.” This is still one of Steve’s favourite moments, watching Tony get a screwdriver out of his suit pocket, thus completely altering Steve’s picture of him. That might just as well have been the starting point of all this.

“That was way in the beginning,” Tony says, looking as if he is not quite sure himself whether he wants to protest Steve’s remark or simply marvel at it.

“Yes,” Steve simply agrees, happy with letting Tony come to his own conclusion. Which he does with a slow, happy grin spreading across his face.

“So you don’t mind me watching?”

“Not at all.” Steve shrugs, pointing at the stack of sketchbooks balanced precariously next to his desk. “In fact, you’ve turned out to be quite the well of inspiration.”

Tony’s fingers twitch like he wants nothing more than to page through the books – _again_ in some cases – but he has been careful about not overstepping his bounds.

“Well, you did say you want to draw me,” he then says with what is likely supposed to be a seductive expression, causing Steve to burst out laughing again.

“We remember that rather differently,” he says, thinking of all the times Tony has propositioned him by now, using painting as a very unsubtle euphemism.

Immediately, Tony begins pouting, opening his eyes wide in a way he knows Steve cannot resist. “So you won’t?”

Softening, Steve says, “I’d love to.”

“Naked?” Tony shoots back at once, back to grinning. Already he has a suggestive hand hovering over the buttons of his shirt.

“Don’t push your luck.”

By the time Bucky comes home, Steve has abandoned his canvas and pulled up another chair to his desk, so he and Tony sit close enough to touch as they continue their work, sharing the occasional anecdote but otherwise simply content in each other’s presence.

They do not hear Bucky calling out a greeting, do not notice him standing in the doorway to Steve’s room. What they do notice is the smile that will not leave his face later that night when they all come together for dinner.

“What is going on with you?” Steve asks when he cannot stand the mystery anymore.

“I’m just happy,” he answers, definitely looking the part.

“Why?”

Bucky looks at them, smiles even wider, and says, “I’m happy that you’re happy. Simple as that.”

Steve does not know about simply, but when he looks at Tony, it is the easiest thing in the world to start smiling too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy enough? Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts.  
> All the best!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving kudos and comments! You all make me so very happy. And, once again, special thanks to [EdgyDaddies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgyDaddies/pseuds/EdgyDaddies) for beta-reading this monster.  
> I never thought I'd write so much fluff, but here we go. Enjoy!

When a shining envelope arrives in the mail, all of Steve’s nerves start acting up again. Ever since Tony came back to him, he has successfully avoided thinking of the gallery opening and what that means for his possible future career. Who can blame him, since his heart was busy racing due to thoughts of other things. But now he stares at the letter, _Invitation_ in flowing script and silver letters, tickets for his friends and one to spare.

He is horribly unprepared for the whole event; to strut around in a suit, talk about _meaning_ , make an impression other than being a blundering artist hoping to get lucky. For the first time he wishes he had some of Tony’s effortless composure, to be able to just slip into another’s skin for the night. There must be a trick or two he could learn, but he does not know how to ask, does not think it is appropriate to wish for something Tony not so secretly hates.

In fact, he has not breached the topic at all with Tony. Bucky has, though, with increasing frequency to make absolutely sure Tony knows about it and the importance of this ending well for Steve. And Tony, good sport that he is, has, with equally increasing seriousness, talked about buying the gallery so the evening cannot be anything but a success.

But that is just banter. To bring the actual question to cross over his lips is much harder than Steve could have imagined. Not because he does not want Tony there, and not because he thinks Tony would refuse. On the contrary. This is an important step for him and he does not want to muck it up, so all his fears blur into each other. Failure, rejection, humiliation. Even this ending up in a disaster with him being shunned forever, causing him to starve and continue to live out of his friends’ pockets.

It is as irrational as it is painfully real, impossible to shake.

When he does ask, it is a hurried thing, starting out formal but the words end up stumbling all over each other. “Will you accompany me to the opening of my exhibition?”

Bucky is not there, at least, to see his blundering. But Tony understands the question well enough. It is only _intent_ they are eternally struggling with.

“You’re beginning to think more tactically,” Tony says, clamming up, and Steve wishes he could find out what exactly triggers Tony to withdraw. It happens almost randomly; one moment Tony answers with jokes, the other he completely hides away. “Having me on your arm there will surely –”

“As a date,” Steve clarifies. It takes effort to regain his calm, but the mere thought of losing Tony to another misunderstanding helps immeasurably. “You can wear a disguise for all I care so that no one will recognize you. I’m asking you just for myself.”

“You want me?” Tony asks slowly, like he has still not understood anything.

And maybe neither of them has, because they are still so very surprised whenever the other says or does something that indicates they truly want this, want _them_ to be together.

“Yes. I want you,” Steve agrees firmly, wishing he could find a way to make this clear enough that not even Tony can doubt it. Then he grimaces. “If I’m not a shivering mess afterwards, I’ll even take you out for dinner.”

For the past weeks, they have barely left the apartment but chose to spend their time together, not venturing out where they would have to deal with other people. They alone offer enough problems as it is. Bucky has been not so secretly laughing about them, but Steve does not think he necessarily disapproves.

“Why would you be a mess? You are an amazing artist.” Tony is not subtle about redirecting their conversation away from him, away from _them_. Refraining from rolling his eyes, Steve lets him.

“Because this might be my chance to get a foot into the art world,” he explains, shrugging despite his obvious nervousness regarding the subject. “To maybe earn some money and future representation.”

“No one can look at your art and miss how good it is.”

Maybe Tony does not understand that because he grew up in a world where everybody knew his name and expected great things of him, which he could luckily deliver. Steve, on the other hand, is an unknown entity, hoping not for immortality but a chance.

“But they can look at me and decide it’s not worth the trouble investing in some broke ex-military guy from Brooklyn.”

At that, Tony cocks his head to the side, regarding Steve thoughtfully. “Am I allowed to be rude to people who are rude to you?”

Steve wonders whether that is a yes, whether Tony actually wants to go somewhere with Steve where they will be seen. Liking each other in private is different from true commitment. But surely it is a good sign that they are both willing to try.

“No,” Steve says firmly nonetheless. He has his principles, and he will not let Tony corrupt all of them. “I know I’ve got to grovel there, and I’m prepared for their haughtiness. You will not muck up this chance for me.”

Tony watches him speculatively but finally nods, not promising anything, but Steve guesses this is the best he will get.

“Fine, I’ll come, but I’ll have you know that you are a spoilsport.”

Not able to help it, Steve smiles wildly. That is, until Tony speaks up again.

“But how about this time you do wear that suit I got you?” he asks, trying for innocence but failing spectacularly since he cannot stop smirking. “Your muscles might make it clear that you’re not ninety despite wearing plaid, but you’re there to make an impression. So make it.”

Sighing in defeat, Steve rolls his eyes, even while he thinks that no one will care what he wears when he shows up at the gallery with Tony Stark at his side. He could come in a blue-white-and-red-spandex uniform and no one would so much as bat an eye. This could easily end in disaster. But there is a not insignificant chance that all will end well too.

 

* * *

 

Tony does not come in disguise. In fact, he looks so much like himself that Steve fears no one will spare a glance at the art at all. _He_ has problems concentrating on the task at hand, and that is despite him preferring Tony with wild hair and tank top, grease on his nose and less flashy but deeply contented smile.

Bucky is at his side, wearing a new suit with a satisfied smile, as they make their great entrance, sauntering into the foyer.

“We’re here with one of the artists. Mr. Rogers,” Tony says, pronouncing Steve’s name loud and clear. It appears like this will be a night of statements, and Steve is not exactly unhappy about that.

The first thing Tony notices in return, is that Steve wears the suit Tony has bought him weeks ago for that dinner with his parents. As expected, he looks impeccable in it, deserving of being undressed slowly.

Their eyes meet across the room, causing the temperature to turn up a few notches. Bucky takes one look at them and laughs loudly, before patting Tony on the back and disappearing into the crowd, no doubt looking for Nat and Clint who have arrived half an hour ago only to claim a table close to the buffet. Steve had longed to join them, but sadly he has another role to fill for now.

“You look very decent tonight,” Tony says by way of greeting as he makes his way over to Steve, letting his eyes roam over Steve’s well-built form.

Immediately, Steve feels better, less abandoned in a room full of sharks. “I’d say the same,” he grins, nervousness not dampening his amusement too much, “but I prefer you in working clothes.”

“Or without any clothes at all?”

Blushing, Steve’s first instinct is to make sure no one has overheard them, but Tony’s smile is so captivating that he cannot help but laugh. He is not quite at the point where he does not care what anyone else thinks, but Tony is already making it so much easier.

“Maybe not here,” Steve concedes, “I’d like to keep you to myself.”

Tony must notice the seriousness in his tone, because the light in his eyes grows almost sombre. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, and Steve very much hopes he will. “And now smile,” Tony orders, almost causing Steve to giggle, because smiling is the last thing on his mind. Survival, yes, but everything further requires energy he is sure he does not have to spare.

“I don’t think I can,” he admits in a small voice.

Tony grimaces in sympathy. “Well, at least try to look less constipated.”

“I’m nervous,” Steve argues, eyes scanning the quickly filling room.

“But why?” Tony asks, honestly surprised. As one trained to handle social events, it is possible that he truly cannot understand what a daunting prospect a gathering like this is for a nobody like Steve. “Your art is amazing, you look perfect, and even if someone doesn’t like you, they won’t say anything about it here. Especially not when I’m on your side, ready to ruin their lives if they’re anything less than courteous to you.”

That is exactly what Steve fears: these people making polite small talk and wearing smiles, while preparing to tear him apart once his back is turned. Or them sucking up to him because he is hanging on Tony Stark’s arm like he is openly agreeing that he needs a protector, someone better than him to ever get a foot into their shiny world. These are thoroughly uncharitable thoughts, but Steve cannot help them.

“You wouldn’t,” he admonishes Tony, trying for a stern tone but falling flat.

Tony, in turn, only grins widely. “You bet,” he says, then adopts a gentler tone, “but I won’t have to. Just smile and look approachable. Talk to people.”

Talking, yes, because he is so good at that. Panic rises another notch, curling into his stomach like a beast ready to growl. “But what am I supposed to say?”

“You’re golden. Don’t ever change.” Tony looks ready to reach out and pat Steve’s cheeks. “No one here wants to talk about anything serious.” Because _small talk_ is so much better. “They want to flash their wealth and supposed importance. The minority of them is actually here for the art.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Steve says, forcefully pushing down the hysterical laughter rising in his throat, “because that’s all I know anything about.”

A frown marring his forehead, Tony says, “Don’t sell yourself short. They’ll love you.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I did, and I’m usually one of them.” Before the words can really register in Steve’s brain, before he can come up with an appropriate response – if there even is one, because Tony is so much more than these flashy peacocks, and did he just say he loves Steve? – Tony claps his hands. “But all right, we can do the first round together.”

Steve feels the moment to steer the conversation into a direction away from the exhibition has passed too quickly, but then this is not the right place for anything else. So he resigns himself to playing his part, but still asks weakly, “First round?” like he has fooled himself into thinking that this will be over soon.

Tony only nods overly cheerful as he lays a hand on the crook of Steve’s elbow and begins to steer him into the crowd.

“Just look at me when you feel yourself frowning, and take notes of all the platitudes they use.” Tony dismisses all the stress lying ahead so easily. “You can’t stay glued to my side the whole evening, even if we do look perfect together and I don’t want to let you go.”

A warmth builds up inside of Steve’s chest that has nothing to do with the glass of champagne he has already had or the various fears he harbours, and everything with Tony leaning into his side and making overt promises of them staying together.

“Look at you and parrot the snobs,” Steve says, somehow finding a drab of amusement for the whole situation in the depths of his mind. “I think I can do that.”

“You devil,” Tony chuckles, “I don’t know why anyone believes that innocent face of yours.”

Steve guesses that means he is not hopeless at feigning confidence.

“Promise you’ll save me if I’m about to muck it all up.” Steve’s friends would only make things worse, but if anyone can see and prevent that from happening, it is Tony.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Tony quips, smirking.

Which is something Steve cannot let stand. Tugging at Tony’s arm, he turns so they face each other, never breaking contact. “No,” he says with all the conviction he can gather, “you’re here because I want you here. Because I don’t want to go anywhere without you. Because we somehow married and I want everyone to know.”

A heat creeps into Steve’s voice that has no place here where feelings are only shallowly treated, but he is sure that Tony can see how much he means every single word. He squeezes Steve’s arms, nods as if in acceptance, and never once wastes a glance at their surroundings.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll get out of the small talk after all because I’ll need to show you something very important in the coat room.”

It is nothing even close to a heartfelt confession but Steve has never been more glad to have Tony at his side.

“May I kiss you?” he asks, forgetting where they are and how many people are likely watching. Tony is right: none of them matters, not while they are here together.

“Don’t ever stop.”

As easily as it would have been to lose themselves in each other, Tony puts them back on track only moments later, wearing a serious face that cannot hide the almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

“Let’s go,” he says, and it never occurs to Steve not to follow.

He comes to regret that decision rather quickly, whenever one of the guests barely spares him a glance, eyes glued to Tony, eager to make an impact or form a connection that can later be used. Steve is disgusted with it all, but each conversation makes it easier for him to pull up fake smiles and stand tall. Tony is right, only a precious few of these people are here for the art, and what does he care about the rest? He does not need to impress people who are only putting up an act too.

What he is sure he will never get used to, on the other hand, is the covert insults.

“Stark.” A portly man comes towards them, filling out his expensive suit with natural arrogance. A sigh runs through Tony, audible only to Steve. “Since when are you sponsoring artists?” The man looks Steve up and down, deliberately leaving out his face, like he is a piece of meat bought at the market. “Run out of new scientist employees eager to please?”

“Don’t know where you heard that,” Tony interjects smoothly, nothing in his tone reflecting the hard grip he has on Steve’s arm, holding him back from doing something rash. “I’m not sponsoring Steve. We’re in a relationship.” Tony appears to enjoy saying that as much as Steve relishes in hearing it. “And I like my scientists controversial. Good inventions aren’t made by people without a mind of their own.”

Steve wonders whether the man is in a similar business as Tony, whether this was a subtle jab. In any case, his neck reddens as he searches for an answer and comes up short. Tony does not leave him much time, too, nudging Steve for them to turn around and walk away.

“As if you’d need sponsoring from me,” Tony says, loud enough that he must be heard by everyone around them. “Anyone with half a brain can see that you’re going places. You’ll have a dozen offers before the night is out.”

Mutters rise in their back, which Steve tries not to pay attention to, although that is made all the harder by Tony’s grin, visible only to him.

When they are finally out of earshot, Steve frowns. “I don’t have any offers.”

Tony simply waves his concerns away. “He doesn’t know that. And also, yes, you do.” He sounds so confident about it that Steve cannot muster the energy to doubt him.

“How –” he starts asking and trails off, shrugging helplessly.

“You’ll learn to see it too, but there is quite a number of people interested in your pieces.” Leaning forward, he points at a group of men gathered close to the art, conversing quietly and gesticulating at different paintings. “My presence helps but that’s not –”

Tony abruptly stops talking when one of the gallery workers appears at their side. “Mr. Rogers,” he asks, looking apologetic, “if I may interrupt you. There is a gentleman asking for you.”

At once, Steve’s brain turns into mush, rendering him unable to understand the meaning of the words. “I – what,” he stumbles to find an appropriate answer, only stopping to take a deep breath when Tony covertly kicks him. “Yes, of course,” he amends, trying for confidence.

He glances somewhat forlornly at Tony, whose smile is drenched in smugness at being proven right, but who does not make a move to follow him.

“Go get them,” he says. Then, quieter, he adds, “Don’t be nervous. You’ll do good.” For good measure, he shoves Steve lightly into the direction of the patiently waiting employee. “Just come back to me.”

 

* * *

 

When Steve finds Tony again, he is standing in the section dedicated to Steve’s art.

By now, Tony has seen a lot of Steve’s paintings, pestering him for so long that he has had no chance but to take out work after work and all the sketchbooks he had lying around. Tony’s excitement never dimmed. And while he has seen most of the pieces hanging in the gallery now already, he still stands speechless in front of them. It might be the professional lights or the mere setting, with that mass of people making their rounds, talking, however indirectly, about them, but he seems to find Steve’s art all the more beautiful here. When he notices Steve’s approach, he looks with a new hunger at Steve’s hands, like he cannot wait to explore what else they can do, causing Steve to duck his head in a useless attempt to curb the flush from rising up his neck. He is flattered, truly, but the mere intensity in Tony’s eyes still strikes him as impossible sometimes when it is directed at him.

Sidling close enough to Tony that they touch, he finds he can breathe easier, just by being in Tony’s presence.

Tony, however, does not have that much restraint and asks, “When can we leave? All these people take up too much of your attention when I want it all for myself.”

Breathlessly, Steve laughs. “Not for that much longer.”

An eternity has passed since they have separated, in which Steve has taken Tony’s advice to smile and pass out platitudes, and while he has by no means enjoyed the endless rounds of conversations, it has not turned out as difficult to survive as he has feared.

Taking in his smile, Tony looks at him seriously. “I don’t want to steal your day,” he says, almost hesitant. “Stay as long as you like.”

Steve reaches out to briefly touch Tony’s face, feeling the line of the jaw he has drawn so often already. “If you think for a moment that I would prefer being here over going home with you, you’re not as much of a genius as you claim to be.”

 _Home_ he has said and meant more than the flat he shares with Bucky, but the one that has had Tony in it for the past weeks too. Home as in a place where they are together.

Tony must have noticed the weight Steve has put on the word, because his expressions softens, turning into something joyful.

“Just tell me when you’re done,” he says in a tone that clearly tells the only right answer here is _now_. “I can have Happy here in under five minutes.”

Chuckling, Steve wonders why he is even surprised. Still, he asks, “You brought Happy?”

Tony cocks his head to the side, expression a mixture of apology and nonchalance. “I thought you deserved to have people see you leave in a limousine. It’s all about impressions, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says helplessly, “but I suspect I will learn.”

For a brief moment, Tony’s face looks vulnerable, a wounded thing: an expression that Steve wants to smooth away forever. “You don’t have to.”

Steve nods towards the door, indicating that he is ready to go, ready to climb into a limousine like he has a right to it. He does not care about any of the posh people here, not when Tony is looking at him in worry of having taken too much of a liberty.

“I _want_ to,” he says firmly, leaving no doubt that he means it.

Because he is serious about this, about Tony, and that means he is serious about all that entails too, no matter that he disdains all the press and fanfare.

Some things, some people, are worth all that.

 

* * *

 

“You,” Tony says as soon as the car door closes behind them, “have done exceptionally well.”

Steve, who is just glad he has finally escaped the noise and bluster, takes a minute to breathe, before he turns towards Tony, blushing at the undeserved compliment.

“I’ve done nothing but stand around and hold back groans whenever someone asked me stupid questions about my art.”

And there had been a great many stupid questions. Steve’s drawing style is firmly anchored in the realistic. He does not do symbols and hidden meanings. Still, everyone there seemed to expect several layers of meaning beneath the obvious. Not even in his wildest dreams could he have expected anyone being able to wax so much poetry about the bird he had drawn flying over the Brooklyn Bridge.

“You didn’t tell them to go to hell,” Tony acknowledges Steve’s self-restraint, making him feel much better about himself. “Not even that old bat who asked whether you’re that good in bed to make me come to a boring event like this.”

Ah, yes, he has almost managed to push that memory away. Maybe the horrific amount of personal questions was worse than him having to explain his art.

“You poured your drink over the back of her dress when you thought no one was looking.” Steve laughs freely, remembering the way Tony had, not so stealthily, grimaced and excused himself, only to turn around and take aim while Steve did his best to keep everyone distracted for a little while longer. By the time the offending lady noticed her dripping wet dress, they were already across the room, trying and failing to keep in their laughter.

“She deserved it.”

To which Steve nods unapologetically. “I never contested that.” In fact, if this had not been an important event for him, they could have had much more fun instead of holding back for the sake of keeping up appearance.

“Although,” Tony says, voice low and something more than mischief in his eyes, “you should have just told her that you are so good in bed that I hardly let you out of my sight anymore.”

Steve feels himself blushing, even while he cannot take his eyes off him. Tony’s flirting is back in whole swing, and he cannot even say he does not like it. Unlike during the unfortunate middle part of their acquaintance, all the flirting promises to amount to something more now.

“How can you be so sure of that?” he has to ask nonetheless, although with a smile on his lips. “The only test we had was when we were both drunk.”

Despite all the innuendos and Bucky’s constant teasing and sleeping in the same bed, they have not yet gone farther than touching each other tentatively and freely giving kisses. The desire was there, but they have both felt that one part of using this second chance is to not rush things. They may have started their story together with sex but that is not all they want it to be.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do then.”

There is no mistaking the sudden hunger in Tony’s eyes. A hundred little touches and chaste kisses have built up to this, them leaning into each other, their lips meeting with a fervour that is past desperation.

Tony feels familiar against him, and Steve is not quite sure whether that is because his subconscious has become so used to his warmth over the past weeks, or because Tony is just right for him, exactly who he was waiting for.

Even while they have waited for this moment for so long, they take it somewhat slowly. It is sensual, not hectic. For once, time is in their favour because they have no deadlines to meet, no other people to satisfy. It is only them and the genial need to never let go of each other.

For once, Steve is unbelievably glad that Tony has a driver, for that means they can get lost in each other while still getting closer to home. He does not quite want to resort to jumping Tony in the car, but he is afraid he has not much self-restraint left. This is the man he has been dreaming of for weeks now. And the whole night he had to share Tony’s attention with a whole room of people believing they have a right to him. But now Tony is here in his arms, melting against him like they were made for each other.

At one point, they realize they are in front of Steve’s apartment complex, and they could have been standing there forever already, Happy deciding not to interrupt them. Steve’s first instinct, naturally, is to be embarrassed – being caught making out like a teenager. But then Tony nudges him, grinning wildly, and they both burst out laughing.

“Go home, Happy,” Tony says, drunk on laughter and feeling free, “I don’t think we’ll be driving anywhere for the next couple days.”

Happy, who is likely used to Tony’s shenanigans, merely nods and shoots Steve a smile that almost looks like it is grateful. He waits until they are through the front door before he drives off.

They barely make it up the stairs and into the flat because they cannot part for long enough to take the stairs in any sensible way. When Steve fumbles with the keys, missing the lock several times, Tony chuckles against his mouth. It is visible how much effort it takes for him not to make any suggestive jokes. Steve wonders whether this will ease with time or if he will just cave and join in.

Once they are through the door, Steve pushes Tony up against it, grateful for privacy at last. His hands find their way beneath Tony’s suit jacket and tug at the buttons of his shirt, mourning the lack of direct skin contact. This impatience is as foreign as it is thrilling.

“When will Bucky come home?” Tony asks, lips never losing contact with Steve.

“Not at all. I made sure that Nat and Clint will take him in for the night.” Smiling, Steve silently congratulates himself for not refusing Clint’s innuendo-rich offer. They will not stop teasing him for months to come, but having Tony all to himself is worth it.

“You planned for this,” Tony smirks, his hands moving with new fervour.

“Not quite. But I had certainly hoped.”

Oh, how he has hoped. And now he knows that the memory of Tony’s body on his is nothing like the real thing, even though it was already enough to keep him awake for whole nights. Having Tony here now, fitting perfectly against him, he is glad to feel the other man’s pulse race as much as his, or he might fear it is but an illusion.

“You can’t believe how happy I am to hear this,” Tony says, voice hoarse, “because I’ve wanted to peel you out of this suit since I arrived at the gallery and saw you wearing it.”

“And that after so much trouble of getting me to wear it.” Steve does not know whether the meeting with Tony’s parents would have gone any different had he fitted in better, but his reasoning was certainly not very realistic, for he will always be himself no matter what he wears.

“Well, it turns out to be a good thing you refused to wear it,” Tony says as he works on the buttons of Steve’s shirt, his movements slow enough that Steve has to force down the urge to help him along. “I couldn’t have focused for a second had you worn that for the dinner with my parents.”

“Do you often buy people things you want to take off them?” Steve asks, grinning, but Tony takes the question semi-seriously, probably already knowing that his attitude towards spending money will become a problem at some point.

“Only if you’ll let me.”

Steve laughs, but it turns into a moan when Tony grinds against him, not quite impatient but definitely eager.

“Let’s take this to your room,” Tony suggests breathlessly, “I hope we won’t be up for much walking later, and I’m sure you don’t want to be found by Bucky in the morning.”

Letting their clothes fall carelessly to the ground, they manage to be naked by the time they make it to Steve’s bed. Steve lets his hands trail over Tony’s chest and arms, following the lead of his fingers with kisses. Later, he vows to himself, he will memorize every inch of Tony’s body, tanned skin and well-defined muscles and trails of dark hair. Already he itches to draw him like this, ready to dissolve under his hands, to immortalize the beauty he sees.

But there is time for that later. For now he has the real thing in his arms, and when he sinks onto the bed, Tony follows him willingly, barely losing contact.

He wishes they would never have to let go of each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you think.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos.  
> And thank you to [EdgyDaddies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgyDaddies/pseuds/EdgyDaddies) for all the help!

The day after the gallery opening, they meet with Steve’s friends for brunch. Tony seems strangely nervous, which, in turn, only endears him more to Steve. This is the equivalent of meeting the in-laws for the first time, only that Steve is an orphan and Tony does not care for his parents’ opinion, so all they have is their friends, which, since they are family by choice, is a much more terrifying prospect.

They walk into the small diner and there is no mistaking which direction they need to go. As usual, his friends are loud and colourful, beckoning him into their midst. For a moment, he is afraid it will be too much for Tony, but when he stops to ask whether this is all right, he is met with a smile. An honest one, not the horrible, fabricated thing reserved for cameras.

“I’ll try not to embarrass you,” Tony mutters, only half-joking.

“As if you could outdo them,” Steve says back, biting his tongue to not groan in mock-terror when mischief enters Tony’s eyes.

“Don’t challenge me.”

Then they are too close to the table for Steve to answer, but still they grin at each other. Everything feels all right at the moment, and he does not want that to ever change.

“Everyone, this is Tony,” Steve introduces him with a big smile and something sounding suspiciously like a warning in his voice.

They all know him, of course. Or know _of_ him. Also, Nat met him shortly in Las Vegas, and Clint has been part of the ride in his own way. But there is something strangely satisfying about having a hand on Tony’s shoulder and introducing him as _his_.

“Duh,” Clint says but bumps Tony’s fist with a friendly expression, which soon grows conspiratorial. “He’s been talking about nothing but you for weeks.”

Tony simply shrugs. “Well, there is much to talk about.”

Steve holds his breath for a long moment, because this first impression will go a long way. If his friends think Tony as snobbish and shallow as the tabloids depict him, this will end in disaster. And he cannot do anything about it, and neither can Bucky who knows a bit of the truth.

Thankfully, Natasha relaxes back in her seat – the universal sign that she is not about to attack someone, which surely means that they are good. But Nat is hard to win over and harder to read. “We never knew Steve to be a poet before he met you.” There is slight teasing in her voice that is enough to push air back into Steve’s lungs.

“Oh, you’ve been holding back on me.” Tony looks up at him. The expression on his face seems natural, but there is still a bit of tension, part of which is directed at him.

Bucky laughs, a tad too wild, almost like a reprimand. “He just didn’t want to chase you away. Nat never said he’s a _good_ poet.”

Just like that, the ice is broken. Tony and Steve sit down at the table, everyone shuffling closer together to make enough room for their newest addition. It is a tight fit but it feels right. How could it not with Steve’s thighs pressing against Tony’s and his friends eyeing them approvingly.

“Although with how much Steve was mooning about you,” Clint speaks up with too wide a grin for it to be entirely kind, “I thought you’d be taller.”

Without missing a beat, Tony clicks his tongue and leans forward, looking ready to part with a well-kept secret. “Steve likes me to wear heels in the bedroom.”

Of course Steve blushes, but they all laugh and it is so easy to join in. He steals a quick kiss, trying to ignore the catcalls and Clint’s affronted “No making out at the table.”

Steve is giddy enough that he does not mind all the teasing and endless innuendos too much. And Tony does not hide behind his many masks much. He skilfully dodges questions he does not want to answer without appearing too sketchy, and tells enough stories of his own to not appear reclusive.

It feels natural in a way that coming together the very first time has, ignoring all the hard work in between when they tried to make something fabricated out of themselves instead of just taking every step together as it falls.

Hours pass and an outsider might not have guesses that this is Tony’s first time joining this particular group. They make room for him without difficulty and his words chime in in all the right places.

They experience the first hitch when it is time to leave, when Clint waves over the waitress and Tony reaches into his pocket for money like it is an automated response. Stupidly, Steve does not react immediately, does not push his hand pointedly back down. He is startled to the point where he begins to doubt that, maybe, his friends expect him to pay; because they _are_ perpetually short of cash and Tony _is_ a billionaire. He does not know them to be this shallow, but he has not yet talked with Tony about money, or about how they are going to organize a life together even while coming from contrary ends of the spectrum.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Clint comes to Steve’s rescue, voice full of chiding resoluteness, only a hint of humour in his demeanour. Gesturing at the wallet, he adds, “I hope you don’t want to show us your stamp collection.”

The remark is such a confusing mix of nonsensical and typical Clint, that it gives halt to Tony but barely surprises his friends who are somewhat used to his erratic mind.

“Stamp collection?” Tony echoes questioningly, only for Clint to shrug.

“Since you’re not paying, I can only assume you want to show us something. And all rich people collect something.”

Steve thinks there could have been a better way to go about this, but since his first reaction was to panic, he might not be the best person to judge.

“That would be bad decision then, for me,” Tony answers, no less confused but withdrawing a bit, preferring to turn to scathing remarks about himself instead of trying to puzzle out what Clint is actually expecting him to do.

“Not tonight,” Nat interrupts matter-of-factly, pointing at Bucky who is fumbling with his own wallet. “It’s Bucky’s turn.”

“I can –” Tony starts helplessly, but gets cut off by Nat again.

“We know you can, that’s not the point,” she says, shrugging like it is not a big deal, like he is not worth several billion dollars. “We go in turns, and you’re just now added to the list. You’re up in four weeks.”

Maybe trying to make up for his almost blunder, Clint adds helpfully, “This table is ours every Thursday night.”

The words need a moment to sink in, but finally Tony’s lips curl up in a small, pleased smile, allowing Steve to remember how to breathe properly, without bracing for disaster. And still, the genius tries to protest, not having learned yet that this never works out with these people. Nothing moves them when they are set on a course. Thus, he does not get farther than opening his mouth.

“We didn’t invite you to pay for us, but because Bucky thought you’d fit in nicely with us,” Clint says, just like Tony is not just here as Steve’s boyfriend but someone they would have been genuinely interested in even without that.

Naturally, Tony picks up on that. “Not Steve?” he asks, voice sounding comically small, even while trying to hide that at all cost.

Clint, in turn, rolls his eyes. “He said you’re _swell_ ,” he answers, scoffing. “I hope you understand why we’d have reservations.”

Tension breaks as Tony realizes they are honest about this. A grimace flitters over his face as he no doubt remembers the times Steve has used horribly outdated words with him too.

“Oh yes,” Clint laughs, “I do like you. Although your taste in men is abysmal.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tony says, bumping playfully into Steve, “I think I’ve made a good catch.”

He says it without any kind of leer, with nothing but surprised honesty at finding himself here, and still Clint leans forward with something of a predatory glint in his eyes.

“Tell me, how often do you get him to blush?”

That finally rips Steve out of his shell-shocked silence, but he has no hope to interfere before Tony cocks his head to the side, asking, “You mean he ever stops?”

“I’m serious,” Clint says with a lopsided grin, “Nat and I have a bet going and Bucky’s holding out on us.”

“Why are you like this?” Steve groans, still in good humour but actually wondering.

Tony glances at him, worried just until their eyes meet and he reassures himself that they are good. Then he turns back to Clint, looking for all the world like he is going to answer seriously. “Well, I can tell you that there is no blushing in the bedroom. Or the car. Or the kitchen. Or the coat room at –”

Willing the ground to open underneath him – or preferably _them_ – Steve puts his hand over Tony’s mouth, skin tingling where Tony’s lips meet his skin.

“Why are you like this too?” he asks, immediately moving his hand to cup the back of Tony’s head when the genius moves closer to him.

“Don’t pretend you’d want me any other way.”

And Steve does not. In fact, it is ridiculous how far he is gone, what the mere sight of Tony in his arms does to him. They kiss and he wonders about the lack of running commentary from his friends, but when he looks up, he sees them sharing meaningful glances and smiles that just make his contentment more complete because they are happy for him, and he is sure there is no other place he would rather be in at this moment, no other people he would rather share it with.

“No,” he says, stealing another kiss. “I wouldn’t.”

 

* * *

 

On their way out of the restaurant, Nat shares a meaningful look with Clint and then the whole group shifts. Clint throws an arm over Steve’s shoulder, pulling him forwards and talking animatedly about something that has Bucky first laughing and then joining in enthusiastically, planting himself firmly on Steve’s other side. This leaves Nat and Tony trailing after them, so slowly that the distance between them grows.

It is an ambush if Tony has ever seen one, but he takes it with a knowing smile, showing clearly he is allowing this to happen while wondering at the same time whether it was wrong to let his guard down during the meal.

Natasha, naturally, looks utterly innocent, like nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

“Is this the part where you will threaten me?” Tony asks jovially, once he is sure Steve is out of earshot. If there is to be trouble, he wants it dealt with without loading the weight of it onto their still fragile relationship. “I’ll have you know that we’re already married.”

It is not so much an argument as an attempt to keep the mood light and show himself unconcerned.

Nat cocks her head to the side and looks at him in unflattering scrutiny. “As long as you know who is coming for you,” she then says, somehow managing to sound nonchalant and dangerous at the same time.

Tony might not know her well but everything that his instincts and Steve’s stories tell him is that her warnings are not to be ignored. He briefly thinks it is rather unfair that Steve’s friends give him the shovel talk, while his best friend worked hard on making Steve feel welcome where his parents did not.

He nods, wondering whether he is required to answer anything; vow to be on his best behaviour maybe. But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There are no guarantees in love. He is also not sure yet whether that is truly what he has with Steve. So there is actually nothing he can give her, other than his assurance that he is very much interested in this working out, that he appreciates Steve as something so good that he barely believes he deserves it, much less that he can handle it with the appropriate care. All of that, however, are things meant only for Steve’s ears, not for his protective friends, so he stays silent.

Natasha inclines her head, strangely enough giving him the feeling that he has passed some sort of test.

“Let me promise you something in return,” she adds unexpectedly, almost solemnly, “if _he_ ever does something stupid to jeopardize your relationship, I’ll set him straight as well.” A reverse shovel talk? Tony wonders but does not laugh. “If that is what you want.”

Instead of becoming clearer, things only get more curious by the minute. “And if I don’t?” Tony asks gently, waiting for the catch. He can use one hand to count off the people he trusts to not betray him the first chance they get with fingers to spare. Promises from strangers mean nothing to him. Still, Natasha has a way about her that has him listening closely.

“Then I’ll make sure he’ll leave you alone but knows exactly how good a thing he has ruined,” she says simply, nudging Tony forward when he stops walking.

He is taken aback by how matter-of-factly she delivered those words, how, if only for a moment, she lets her masks fall away so he can see the honesty in her expression. It could still be an act, a joke she will have a laugh about with her friends later on. But he believes her.

“You think we’re good?” he asks, sounding lost.

Until now, he has avoided putting their relationship into categories, afraid of disappointment if he raises his own expectations. He knows it feels right, that Steve feels right, fitting in with him like he was made for it. But Tony is aware that his perceptions do not always reflect reality.

Natasha smiles. “I think you have the potential to be.” Then she grows serious once more. “You might not believe me, but you’re a good person. You deserve Steve’s kindness. And Steve needs someone to challenge him.”

Bitterness creeps up Tony’s throat as he looks away, clenching his fist to push down the urge to laugh. No one has ever described him as _good_. Well, no one but Rhodey and, very occasionally, Pepper, but those two are his friends, meaning they must be somehow defective anyway. People do not look at him and see someone worth their effort.

“If by challenge you mean needless arguing, you’re right, I’m good at that,” Tony says, aiming for flippant but falling flat. Steve is important to him, and he does not like their mercilessly approaching failure dangled in front of his nose like that. He knows he is a piece of work.

To his surprise, Natasha rolls her eyes and pats his shoulder, taking apparently no notice of his sinking mood. “Stop fishing for more compliments,” she chides softly, like he was not completely serious. “And do introduce me to Ms. Potts. I hear she is terrific and I’ll appreciate her help with the wedding.”

Tony’s first thought is happiness that Steve seemingly has carried Tony’s praise for Pepper over to his friends. Then, however, he freezes, confused. “Which wedding?” he asks, wondering whether Bucky has made a move while all of them were busy with Steve and his drama, no matter how unlikely it is. Both of them are more the type for the short and painless Las Vegas wedding than Tony and Steve are.

“Yours,” Nat says simply, clicking her tongue like she cannot believe he has to ask.

“I’d hate to bore you with repetition,” Tony counters, still thinking he is missing some major point here, “but Steve and I are still married.”

Nothing changes in Natasha’s expression, except for her widening smile. As Steve had promised a hundred times, it leaves him terrified. “I mean the real deal,” she says, as if there are no more uncertainties and countless barriers to overcome. “It’s too soon for that, but once you’re ready, we’ll do things properly.”

With that, she leaves him to ponder his shock and lengthens her stride to close the distance to her friends. As soon as she reaches them, Bucky and Clint give up the pretence of being completely caught up in their conversation and turn expectantly to Nat. It is enough, at least, to have Steve realizing that he was just played.

With an apologetic expression, he lets himself fall back to Tony, looking him over in concern like he would not put it past his friends to do him bodily harm.

“Everything all right?” he asks, sounding so worried that Tony cannot do anything but smile.

“Of course,” he reassures him easily. This is his husband, as foreign as the word feels in his mind. They might have started this all wrong but he still has hopes that they will not bring it to an untimely end. Hopefully no end at all. “Just had a nice chat with Natasha.”

Joining their arms together, they walk out of hearing distance of his friends, although Tony does not mind them much. After all, they appear to be on his side. _Their_ side. He would never have dared ask for it, making him all the more grateful. And hopeful for their future too. At least he knows he is not the only one rooting for it to happen.

 

* * *

 

Weeks later, on their way home from dinner, Tony’s phone rings, causing Tony to frown down at it while making no move to disentangle from Steve. The number of people who would be calling him is rather low, and Pepper, and by proxy Rhodey too, knows that they were going out tonight, so neither of them would want to disturb. Which leaves only work or, worse, Tony’s parents.

When Happy stops the car in front of Steve’s apartment building, Tony sighs and finally pulls out the phone.

“Obie,” he says, carefully keeping any inflection out of his tone, already preparing for what will likely be an exhausting conversation. Leaning in to steal a short kiss, he adds, “Why don’t you go on up while I deal with this?”

Steve does not want to leave Tony, but he knows there is not much he can do to help, other than prepare coffee for when Tony is done, and maybe loosen his clothing already. The thought fills him with heat, although he is not embarrassed about it anymore. That is not possible, thinking of the way Tony fits so naturally against him and just how right it feels.

Dropping a short kiss on Tony’s brow, Steve bids Happy goodnight and gets out of the car. He feels giddy as he walks up the stairs, courtesy of the night out and Tony’s continued presence.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out once he is through the door to their apartment, not that surprised when he does not get an answer.

Bucky has been trying to give them space. Normally, that would make Steve feel guilty, but since it coincides with Bucky finally getting the courage to be more upfront with Natasha about what he wants, Steve is simply happy. Things seem to fall into place for all of them.

Humming to himself, Steve makes his way to the kitchen. The first thing he notices when he turns on the light, is the bottle of scotch on their kitchen table, which has him stopping short in the doorway. He is sure neither of them put it there. They have not talked about it, but, at the same time, Tony has not tried to hide that he has a history with alcohol. Not outright alcoholism, perhaps, but definitely quite a step beyond temperate intake. It has been an unspoken agreement not to have any alcohol in the house, which Bucky has accepted without question.

“Mr. Rogers.” A voice startles him out of his musings, causing him to whip up his head.

The sight before him does not make any sense. Howard Stark stands in his kitchen, holding a water glass filled with amber liquid. In Steve’s mind, this man will always sit straight-backed at his own dinner table, looking at his son with disgust and at his wife with cultivated disinterest. Finding him here, without warning or any possible explanation, has Steve at a loss.

“Mr. Stark,” he greets nonetheless, his good manners kicking in, despite a stubborn part of his mind telling him he does not owe this man any politeness.

He meets the barely-disguised glare head on. Howard Stark is not the first person to regard Steve with disdain, and he has given up on wanting to appeal to his in-laws before he has even actually started dating Tony. Still, he is confused what merits this visit. It is a good thing, he thinks, that Stane called when he did, so Tony at least does not have to be here for what can only turn out to be an ugly conversation. Although that is likely fabricated, because Stark’s eyes do not stray from him even for a minute to look for his son.

“What do you want from us?”

It takes a long moment for Steve to register that it has not been him who has spoken these words, but Stark himself, although they echo no less bitter in the back of his mind. The audacity of it. How dare he come into Steve’s home and ask this like everyone is used to playing games all the time and not in for some illusive reward.

“Right now?” Steve asks back, swallowing down the anger scraping up his throat. “I was looking forward to a quiet evening with Tony. Our dinner was excellent, but we ate so much that we won’t be up for anything exciting tonight anymore.”

Stark’s eyes narrow, but that does not feel like as much of a victory as Steve had hoped. What is the joy in scoring points against someone he would rather not ever see again?

“Don’t play with me,” Stark spats, the disparaging _boy_ hanging between them, unsaid but almost tangible. “Is it money? I can give you that to spare you all the trouble.”

He does not explicitly say it, but with trouble he means Tony. Being with Tony, adjusting to living with their issues.

In that moment, Steve realizes exactly what Stark is doing here: he wants to make a problem go away, said problem being Steve. Because it must be so grating to have Tony making plans for a future farther away than the next evening in town, involving drinks and easily satisfied dates, not in for the long haul. But Steve is here to stay, and that pushes Tony where he is not easily controlled anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he finally walks farther into the kitchen towards the coffee machine, intent on busying his hands with something other than trying to shake some sense into Howard Stark.

“I don’t need your money,” Steve says tonelessly, not quite expecting the chuckle this elicits but not surprised by it either.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Stark speaks like someone who has figured out all of the world, but it just cements Steve’s belief that he has understood nothing. “Everybody needs money. And we happen to have enough to attract all kinds of people. I just want to know what kind you are.”

Coffee beans in hand, Steve turns halfway around to fix Stark with a firm look of both reprimand and blunt honesty. “I’m the kind who loves your son, no matter his name or –”

“His name?” Stark interrupts him carelessly, not even twitching at the mention of love. “Guess you want to boost your popularity by tying yourself to him.”

Barely holding back a groan, Steve briefly closes his eyes, hoping uselessly that the annoying man in front of him will be gone when he opens them again.

“That’s not the way I would go about it,” he says, turning resolutely back to the machine.

The smell of coffee does not soothe him as it usually does. It reminds him of Tony, and all he wants now is for Tony to keep talking on the phone downstairs, to not come up and hear this argument between his father and sort-of-husband. Because Tony is prone to misinterpreting things and Steve does not know how to solve this situation without making a blunder or two.

“Already prickly about the scandals?” Stark asks, a hint of smug knowing in his voice. For all his dismissive loudness, Stark is an intelligent man, just soured by his paranoia and grasping wish for _more_. This _more_ , Steve is sure, does not even necessarily involve material things. Someone so bitter about everything involving people must have sought it at some point, and only turned to resent it once he failed.

“The only reason I’d care about that is for Tony’s sake.” Steve tells himself that this is not a complete lie. Yes, he has resented the way the press wrote about them, about him, but that was before he had a chance at getting Tony back. If he had lost him _and_ his credibility just because of their brief and ultimately doomed dalliance, he would think differently. But now that Tony is here with him, he will survive disparaging articles and unflattering photographs. “Tony doesn’t deserve the way people talk about him.”

“But he does, Rogers.” Stark sounds almost gleeful, like he cannot wait to reach out and shatter Steve’s illusions. “The press is creative, but they could not make up even half the shit the boy has done.”

Not sure what to answer to that or whether there is any answer at all, other than curses and an unmistakable shove towards the door, Steve takes cups out of the cupboard, eyes trained on the porcelain like he is afraid he will drop it if he looks away even for a second. He still sees Stark’s face twist into something smug and ugly, sees him gesturing at Steve in a way that has the scotch almost spilling.

“You need to decide what kind of picture you want to show the world and then stick to it to have any privacy at all,” Stark says, voice almost kind, like he is only here to give out free advice. “Nothing is good and kind in this world. People want something to talk about and if you don’t give them something, they’ll find something on their own, something you don’t want anyone to know or that’s completely made up but that sells nonetheless.”

“We’re not public property.” Putting down the cups harder than necessary, Steve turns around to scowl at Stark. “Tony doesn’t care about any of that.”

He is so sure about this, and still he wavers when Stark looks back at him with pity.

“He knows how the system works,” Stark says, almost kindly. “And he knows how to use it.”

Because he was taught to. Because that is how he was told the world keeps turning.

“Tony is better than that,” Steve shoots back with all the conviction he holds.

It is strangely satisfying to see Stark’s face fall, wrinkles deepening into something bitter. “He’s my son,” he says with the kind of doomed certainty that hits as hard as blows, “so, no, he isn’t.”

Without warning, Steve feels pity. For Howard Stark and his inability to hold onto things he must have loved once, for a genius in his own right who does not understand anything. He can see it then, easily, that Tony could end up the same: old and broken and holding the world at bay just so he does not have to feel; the curse of a brilliant mind turning against itself. He should take it as the cautionary tale it is, but it only strengthens his resolve to never let that happen to Tony.

“This is the first time I’ve heard you referring to Tony as your son when there wasn’t a camera trained on you. And still it was with disgust.” Steve’s voice does not hold any accusation. They have moved beyond that, somehow. “What is your deal?”

Looking firmly at his glass, Stark downs it in one go, hands twitching to where the bottle stands on the table, in the middle between the two men. He does not go for it.

“I don’t think you are here for anything other than personal gain, but if you’re not, let me give you some advice.” Stark leans forward, eyes glinting with something less than malice but undeniably hard. “You won’t fix us. Not this family and certainly not Tony. If you need a project, better look elsewhere.”

The words hit like bullets, embedding themselves deep into Steve’s chest. This is so similar to what Tony himself told him the first time they talked about his family. It has him at a loss for words, since he feels the doubt so keenly. Why does everyone expect him to reach for broken things, wanting to put them together? His friends – because there is always a hint of truth beneath their teasing – and now this stranger. Maybe there is something wrong with him.

“That is not –” Steve tries to protest nonetheless, but falls abruptly silent when Tony appears in the doorway, looking slightly flushed but otherwise just like home.

Tony has always seemed more aware of his surroundings than Steve, or maybe he is more versed in interpreting signs. When his eyes fall on the bottle on the table, it does not take even a fraction of a second for him to look beyond it and find his father, standing not as straight anymore as he did when Steve arrived.

“Father,” he greets simply, neither tone nor face showing any surprise at Howard’s unexpected presence. No hint of a question is audible in his voice, although Steve is attuned enough to Tony’s body language by now to recognize the stiff line of his shoulders as what it is: a sense of dread, fear, a trained expectance of things to fall apart.

Still, he walks over to Steve with his head held high, and no conscious thought is needed for Steve to open his arms for him. Immediately, the world seems brighter again.

“Everything all right?” Tony asks, looking between them like he is not sure whether he should interfere or not.

Steve does not need anyone to fight his battles for him, so he smiles and shakes his head minutely. He has faced worse things than bitter old men. “Perfect.” Gathering up the cups again, Steve fills them with steaming coffee. “Good evening, Mr. Stark,” he says and turns away, trusting Tony to follow him.

At the door, he stops again shortly, never more aware of Tony’s presence at his side than at this moment.

“There’s nothing to be fixed here,” he intones firmly, meaning not only Tony and himself, but Stark too. Some things do not deserve to be mended, and while Tony would deserve a father, the issue should not be forced. “I love Tony just the way he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you asked for reality to come crashing down on these two, and I tried. But they were very insistent on getting the happiness they deserve. I'd apologize for all the fluff, but I can need all the good stuff I can get at the moment, so here we go ;-)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a comment.  
> We're almost done, friends!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I hear complaints about this being to fluffy? Guys, I had the epilogue already written. Everything was going to be sunshine and rainbows. And then [FriedChickenNisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriedChickenNisha/pseuds/FriedChickenNisha) reminded me of Obie. Everything happening in this chapter is their fault, not mine. (Thanks again. I’ve never before forgotten that I don’t usually do fluff.)   
> So, enjoy the drama!

Tony is not sure who he was trying to kid, but his ill-advised romance with Steve was never going to last. They have spent weeks in their happy bubble, treating the outside world like a strange, far-away place that has no impact on them, content with just each other. So when reality comes knocking, it takes them down without any effort at all.

The day starts innocent enough, with kisses and promises of breakfast in bed. After his morning run, Steve brings in the newspaper, despite Tony’s protests to never read anything that has not been filtered by JARVIS to exclude everything personally offending. As it is, this story spans a whole page, and goes beyond offending into outright crippling.

They sit close to each other on the bed, legs tangled and Tony all but tucked in against Steve’s side – which is easily Tony’s favourite place these days – when they find it.

The first thing they see is a large picture of themselves, taken on the night of the gallery opening. Steve is beautiful in his suit, standing straight-shouldered and smirking slightly, while Tony looks up at him with a clearly infatuated expression, obviously eager to please. While Tony loves the self-assuredness Steve radiates in this picture, he cannot help but grin as he remembers the shivering mess he had actually been that night.

Fool that he is, Tony nudges Steve. “It’s almost as if they’re beginning to like you. That picture flatters you much more than me.”

When he looks up, however, Steve does not smile and say something either bashful or sarcastic – he only ever seems to have these two moods. Instead, he is pale as if he has seen a ghost, staring at the bottom half of the newspaper with mounting horror.

The second picture features Steve in combat slacks, something crazed in his eyes, his mouth opened to shout, his entire face almost a mask of madness. In the background is a stretcher with Barnes on it, grizzly and barely recognizable. What else could this be but evidence of Steve bringing his best friend home, still unsure whether he can be saved, no matter the effort and insubordination he has committed to get him there.

“What?” Steve growls, almost inarticulate, after a long minute in which Tony tries to find a way to keep the already slipping situation from escalating.

“I –” He starts and trails off because Steve does not even acknowledge him, but instead clenches the paper in his hands and pulls it closer to read.  

In a horrible sort of way, the article is a thing of beauty. In one fell swoop, it manages to discredit Steve and all of his friends, while painting Tony as the misguided, alcohol-addled child who has fallen for the devil impersonate but can surely be saved, if only he is not left in evil’s clutches for much longer.

It reads like an ambitious spy novel, talking about Russian double agents and corrupted soldiers making deals with the enemy, but with just enough seriousness to make it look real. They paint Bucky’s story in great detail, how he got captured and tortured, lost his arm and his sanity both, but are not satisfied with letting him be a victim. Instead, they make him into the reason why an upstanding American Captain betrays his homeland to show mercy for terrorists and become friends with Russians. Furthermore, they dig up Clint’s less than happy childhood, and Steve’s school record, and even call Clint’s credibility into questions, even though he has not been involved in this at all.

It succeeds in sending Steve into a sparking panic, turning him wild-eyed and ready to snap. That more than anything else, tells Tony that the author has done his research instead of making things up.

Tony’s only consolation is that Bucky usually leaves the house before the newspaper arrives, which means that he is not here to make good on his promise to deal with Tony if he ever hurts Steve again. Judging on the blonde’s look, this certainly qualifies.

“Steve,” Tony says cautiously, his worry only spiking when Steve jerks his head to look at him with distrustful eyes. This might not be how it usually goes – he is more used to boredom and greed – but Tony is intimately aware of how endings feel.

“What is this?” Steve asks, toneless but like he cannot yet believe he is truly awake and not making this up inside his head.

“It’s just some article. Some overeager journalist looking for quick cash.” Tony realizes this is not the right thing to say as soon as the words are over his lips. In front of him, Steve’s face darkens.

“Quick cash from whom?”

There are only wrong answers here, but Tony is too thrown by the question to tread carefully. “Obviously from their employers,” he says, barely keeping from rolling his eyes. It does not do to downplay other people’s worries, but he refuses to show himself touched by the article, lest it makes things worse. One of them has to keep his composure. “What are you trying to say?”

Steve does not answer immediately, but he disentangles himself from Tony completely, which is a statement in itself. He brings a firm distance between them, enough that they cannot accidentally touch anymore, only if they reached out. Steve does not look like he would welcome that at the moment.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” Steve asks, his face a facsimile of calm.

Once the meaning of this registers in Tony’s mind, it feels like the breath is knocked from his lungs as his chest constricts. How would Steve ever come to this conclusion? He thought they were building something here, that they could trust each other. _He_ , in any case, decided to trust Steve.

“What? Steve!” His tone is imploring, as if he could change Steve’s conclusion even while he can watch it solidify against him.

“How would anyone know about these things if you didn’t tell them?” At this moment, everything about Steve is utterly unforgiving. Nothing in his tone or posture suggest that he is going to be moved by anything Tony will say, no matter whether it is the truth. Something about this has him thoroughly spooked.

“How could I if _I_ don’t know about most of this either?” Tony counters, his voice pitched high. “It’s not like Clint told me that he has apparently been in the circus. And all of you always clam up when someone comes even close to asking about Bucky’s arm.”

Tony had tried asking once about what happened, but backed down quickly when he noticed the mood dropping and the group of friends moving almost unconsciously closer together. Tony can pick up clues and knows when not to pry. He has secrets of his own. The thing is that he knows how to protect those secret to keep nosy reporters from finding out about them. This usually involved a heavy sum of money or some hacking, or he simply makes sure there will be bigger things to talk about than whatever he wants to keep quiet. If there was something Steve did not want anyone to know about, Tony could have helped with that. Instead, he is apparently being blamed for the world being as it is.

“With good reason, apparently,” Steve spats out, withdrawing further.

“Steve –” Pleading with Steve to see reason will obviously get him nowhere. Tony is just afraid that logic will not end up getting him better results. Still, he asks, “What could I possibly gain from doing this?

“How would I know?” Steve cuts harshly through Tony’s pleading, not giving him even an inch. “Maybe this is some kind of test, or maybe you’ve grown bored of me already. Maybe this is just a sport for your kind. Lead on the pleb, have some fun, then go out with a bang.”

Tony recoils as if hit. It feels like a line has been drawn between them just now. Never before has either of them used their difference in standing as an argument, much less to hurt. He is not sure there is any going back from this point.

Familiar resignation settles into Tony’s bones. This is what it always comes down to in the end. People can promise as often as they want that they see him for who he is instead of for his name and money. There is no hiding from one’s nature, though. Tony is everything people blame him to be. It never seems to matter that he is so much more too.

“Is this what you think of me?” he asks, somehow both soft and bitter. He likes to think that, an hour ago, this kind of voice would have given Steve pause, made him worry. Now, however, he does not even look at Tony.

“Frankly, what does it even matter if you talked to the press yourself or someone close to you did?”

Not expecting an answer, Steve already seems miles away from Tony as he grabs his phone. While Tony sits motionless, caught in a maelstrom of denial, Steve tries to call someone, only to groan in mounting frustration when no one picks up. Only then does he fix his attention back on Tony, although Tony almost wishes he could hide from the glaring mixture of pain and apathy raging in the familiar blue.

“This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been so stupid to go out with you.”

There is nothing Tony can say against that. If they had followed the code for one-night-stands, they would have only had the memories of one night full of very good sex to carry with them. No insane plans to have a pretend marriage. No awkward dinners. No painful breakups. Of course there would not have been any of the good things too; no full-belly laughter, no late-night discussions. Tony would not have felt his heart melt at the sight of Steve being chased by Dummy through his workshop, or doing his best to charm JARVIS. No dinners with the human Jarvis either, or Thursday nights with his friends.

With a start, Tony realizes that he is not only on the verge of losing the man he has steadily fallen in love with, but also Bucky, Natasha and Clint, who he has come to regard as friends in their own right. All of it seems like a dream already, rendered into a thing of the past by a single, disgusted glare from Steve.

“I had nothing to do with this,” Tony intones firmly, trying to convey this in a way that has Steve snapping out of his unusual fury. He wants to reach out but thinks he cannot bear the rejection likely waiting for him.

“Haven’t you?” The sneer fits Steve surprisingly well, full of sharp edges that cut Tony, no matter the distance between them. “Funny, because last year no one gave a damn about me and my friends.”

Despite knowing how useless it is to argue, Tony needs to try. He has shirked so many fights in his life already, but he does not want to simply give up now. “There’ve been other articles about us,” he points out, even though he is aware of the difference. Those were love stories, pieces of gossip. This is slander.

“Not like this,” Steve almost shouts, and hits the newspaper lying between them. This flimsy piece of paper is as impenetrable a barrier as any Tony could have built.

Tony cannot quite hide his flinch at Steve’s sudden outburst, and that is what finally infuses him with some much needed anger too. “I thought you knew what you were getting into.”

“Well, I thought it was worth it too.”

This takes all the fight out of Tony. He grips the bed sheets underneath him as hard as he can, to keep himself from doing something foolish, like throwing himself at Steve and plead for another chance, even though he has not actually done anything wrong. “So, what now?” he asks, quietly, even while he does not want to hear the answer.

“I don’t have time for this right now. If it wasn’t you –” Steve shakes his head, dismissing Tony so very easily. “Anyway, maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for now.”

These words feel so much like a physical blow, that Tony can only watch motionlessly as Steve gets up, grabs the nearest clothes, and leaves without so much as a glance back. Despite the raging chaos inside his head, Tony remains where he is, concentrating on each intake of breath as if it is complicated labour. Already, he feels himself crumbling, wondering idly when he is ever going to get used to being left behind.

 

* * *

 

The click of the door behind him echoes almost deafeningly in Steve’s ears, adding to the cacophony of panic filling him. He cannot actually stop his mind from falling into the abyss opening up inside him. For weeks now, he has waited for the other shoe to drop, if only subconsciously. Happiness has become a foreign thing since going to war. They have reclaimed contentment, mostly, but not enough to expect the future to not be rocky.

A small part of him already hates himself for not believing in Tony, but it is so surprisingly simple. Tony knows how to lie, how to hide, how to navigate this world of his to keep things like this from happening. Or, a nagging voice in the back of his head says, to _make_ them happen.

This is no accident. This is not someone with dumb luck hitting all the right points. Someone knew exactly where to go and how to get there. With as many truths as the article contains, no matter how warped they are, it is easy to imagine it was an inside job, enough so to sow distrust between Steve and his tentative boyfriend. While Steve does not actually think that Tony would go to the press himself – there are not many flattering words about him in there either – it is entirely possible that he blabbed to someone who did. For someone who values privacy as much as they do, this is just as bad.

It could also be some sort of test, maybe a statement, or a giant _go to hell_. It feels like it. This is Tony waving a flag, conducting an experiment to see whether Steve is able to withstand the pressure of life in the limelight. It does not make sense, up until Steve’s mind churns it relentlessly over until it does; the horrible, churning kind of sense that leaves everyone aching in its wake.

No one knows about the rescue mission Steve went on to get Bucky back. It was neither authorized nor actually thought through. If he had failed, no one would have come after them. Their commanding officer promised to make it go away after they came home, and there is no reason why he would have broken his word now, seeing as his head could be on the line for it too.

One late night, Steve has told Tony enough about it that the genius could have puzzled the missing pieces together, and he maybe hacked a classified archive or two for the rest. Tied in with the other delectable tidbits about his and his friends’ lives, the source can only be someone close to them. Who else is there but Tony, who else whom they do not trust completely?

He does not have the slightest idea what Tony would hope to achieve with this, but he understands so little of his world, and Tony’s brain has always been beyond him.

A storm of denial rises inside of Steve’s chest, but he swallows it down mercilessly, refuses to let it make him turn around. It could just be wishful thinking. He has come to his conclusion, and nothing will derail him from it but actual evidence. His family is more important than some romantic adventure, so he will not take any chances with them. Even if Tony is not the source of the article, he remains the reason for it. Before their acquaintance with him, no one has ever wasted a second glance on them, and now they are taken apart and defamed without mercy.

 

This is not some gossip article featured in the rainbow press. Everyone loves a good horror story, and the heir to America’s biggest weapons manufacturer falling in with terrorist sympathizers and Russian spies – there is no way this will die down quickly. While people might be focusing on Tony, their faces will be plastered everywhere, their names spoken like curses.

They have been dealing so well. The nightmares have gotten better, they rarely have unprovoked panic attacks anymore. Having strangers dissect their lives, however, writing dismissively about trauma they barely managed to get through, depicting Tony as their _victim_ who is to be saved from their depravity – that is too much.

All Steve can think of is Bucky. Had they written only about Steve, he could have lived with it, but his friends deserve better. Bucky deserves to leave this part of his past behind, to not have it dragged up and thrown at his face.

No matter what else is happening, he needs to get to Bucky and reassure him that they are all safe, that he is home and surrounded by family, that no one is going to take him away again or reopen the internal investigation about how Steve knew where to go and how Bucky lived long enough to be found. They skirted that once, mostly because of Nat’s contacts and preparedness, but he is not so sure they will manage a second time.

Bucky could be fine. This might not have triggered a panic attack. He might not even know about the article yet. Steve knows that he is only kidding himself. Someone at his workplace must have read it, and someone will make a comment about it, that is just human nature. Unexpected blows always hit the hardest. Despite all the progress they have made, Bucky is not well. Mostly he can keep up the pretence, can smile and joke and live his life, but Steve is there during the bad nights, spanning into bad days and bad weeks, when everything real seems unreachable but the memories of that place are the only thing that fill Bucky’s mind. They have come so far that not every little thing triggers a relapse anymore. But how could this blatant, unflattering article fail to remind them?

Steve’s limbs move without him giving them conscious orders. If he feels like his family is in danger, he has always worked almost on auto-pilot. He has barely made it half the way to Bucky place of work, however, when his phone rings. For once, he is glad that Clint thought himself funny and personalized their ringtones, because he might have just ignored it otherwise, thinking it would be Tony calling to apologize or make things worse – although the two might actually be the same in this case.

As it is, he never slows down as he whips up the phone to his ear. “You read it?”

The article did not spare Clint either, but a difficult childhood does not measure up to Bucky’s fairly recent drama right now, so Steve concentrates on the important things.

“Yes,” Clint sounds clipped but calm. “Come to our flat.”

“I need to –”

“Nat’s already gone to collect Bucky.” There is no hesitation in Clint’s voice, and it still does not alleviate Steve’s tension one bit. He trusts Natasha with his life, but Bucky is so much more important than that. “Don’t fret, Steve. You know she will get him here without causing a ruckus.”

Which means that Steve would not. Both of them are aware of that, but Steve is nonetheless glad that Clint does not say it outright.

“I’m on my way.” It takes physical effort to turn around. “Call me as soon as you hear something.” Or something goes wrong, but Steve does not have to tell Clint that either. Where they are involved, things never tend to go over smoothly.

Steve arrives before Nat and Bucky do and almost throttles Clint for making him believe that his best friend is already safely at home. Instead, he takes deep breaths to calm himself down, and lets Clint bully him into helping to prepare hot cocoa for all of them, even though he knows that none of them will touch it, no matter how often Clint swears it soothes all hurts. He has that in common with Mrs. Barnes at least, so the familiar smell might help matters after all.

When he hears the door opening, he is out in the hall before he even realizes he is moving. Then there is Bucky, pale and shivering, barely holding himself upright, clutching his prosthetic arm like he fears it will dissolve into nothing if he lets go for even a moment.

“Steve,” he says, almost a question, and all of them are reminded of the way he said the same thing when they broke down the door to his cell. It was years ago, and it still hurts as if they have never left that place.

“I’m here,” Steve breathes and rushes forward. He does not actually touch Bucky but waits for his friend to come to him, feeling endlessly relieved when he does. The farther Bucky slips into the horrors of his mindscape, the harder it gets to persuade him that they are not merely ghosts come to haunt him, who would disappear if he tries to touch them, thus making him too terrified to move.

They somehow navigate the way to the living room and to the couch, where Bucky collapses, boneless, and Steve positions him so he can be his friend’s shield. He hums under his breath, just to distract them from the panic and their racing heartbeats sounding like drums in their ears.

“Where did they get these pictures?”

They should not exist, although Steve is not very surprised that someone apparently preferred documenting their dramatic entrance into the military hospital instead of helping while Bucky was bleeding out. People are like that.

Steve bites his tongue hard to keep from speaking his mind. This is neither the time nor the place to voice his suspicions, especially since it would be thoroughly unfair to implement Tony as the enemy in Bucky’s already frayed mind. He does not want to think about it either, about the trust he might have misplaced, and that ugly feeling in his chest that does not come purely from seeing his best friend turning back into a broken mess.

Instead, Steve holds Bucky closer and repeats the same lines over and over, willing him to believe them. “They can’t get to you. You’re home. We’re here for you. We won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”

The words feel like ash in his mouth, because Bucky had obviously been hurt again, simply because of Steve’s association with someone unable to keep their private life actually private.

“I can’t go back there,” Bucky croaks, desperate. He begins to struggle against Steve’s arms, causing Steve to let go quickly as if burnt. The line between comfort and restraint is a very thin one here, but one he has learned to navigate over the past years and dozens of panic attacks. He removes his arms but stays close, hoping to anchor Bucky in the present.

“You won’t, I swear,” Steve says urgently, feeling Bucky’s fear like a physical hurt searing into him. “No one will ever make you go back.” Not physically, at least. In their minds, they visit those cold desert nights far too often.

“But it feels – I feel –” Bucky’s prosthetic fingers dig deep into the flesh of his other arm, unrelenting enough that it will leave bruises. “I can’t feel my arm.”

The doctors and scientists had warned them about that. Despite the arm being essentially wired into Bucky’s nerve system, it is still something _foreign_ , not an actual part of his body. They spoke about dissociation, special kinds of phantom pain. In a way, it made the panic attacks worse, feeding right into the crippling knowledge of how much things have changed. Even if Bucky had been given a second chance at having two functioning arms again, he would never be completely whole.

Without a second thought as to how easily Bucky could break his bones if he slipped and gave into the panic constantly clawing at the fraying ends of his mind, Steve offers his own hand.

“Hold onto me,” he says, sounding both firm and pleading. “I’m real and you can feel me.”

He does not hide the way his shoulders drop in relief when Bucky reaches out again, holding his hand first tentatively, as if expecting it to turn to dust under his touch, then with growing strength. For now, that is enough.

Clint and Natasha give them space. They are a constant presence at the edge of their awareness, providing background noise and blankets and hot drinks that stay mostly untouched. Each one of them has a specific role in this dance of theirs taking care of each other, borne by years of building a system that works for all of them.

At one point, Bucky drifts off into an uneasy sleep, mind and body utterly exhausted, occasionally jerking awake only for Steve to soothe him back into something almost approaching calm. He does not move one bit, even when Bucky has stayed still for over an hour. There are things he should talk about with the others, but he cannot quite bring himself to leave his almost embrace with Bucky, which is as much of a safe place for him.

Natasha will ask questions and Clint will offer opinions, both of which Steve is not yet ready to face. Neither does he think of Tony or whether he is still in Steve’s flat, waiting for him to come home. Maybe he has already gone. A small, vengeful part of Steve wishes he has, if only to minimize the chances of this happening again. With sudden clarity, he understands what Tony once told him, that being with him equals courting disaster. He thought it overly dramatic back then, but looking at them now, he truly cannot find another word for it.

 

* * *

 

Once Steve is gone, all Tony can do is pull the article close and read it again and again, the words settling uncomfortably in his brain, almost burning into place. None of this makes sense. Why would someone stage a full-out attack? This is not something a single reporter cocked up, not without appropriate incentive.

Well, Tony knows someone who would both profit from him crawling back home, heart-broken and ready to drown his grief in work, and has the necessary funds to move heaven and hell to get a story that cannot be easily dismissed. Everyone can write shocking articles by outright lying or blowing insignificant facts out of proportion. The real art is in finding the truth and spinning it to one’s advantage.

Pulling out his phone with heavy hands, Tony calls his father. There is a small part of him hoping that Howard does not have anything to do with this. This is another scandal for Stark Industries too, and Howard himself will not escape unscathed. He is sure there is a lesson for him hidden somewhere in this, but he cannot for the life of him say what it is.

“Has he already gone running?” Howard asks by way of greeting as soon as the call connects, not doing anything to hide his snickering. He is drunk, of course he is. What irritates Tony much more is the way Howard’s maliciousness is only sharpened by alcohol.

It also leaves no doubt that Howard knows exactly what is happening.

“What the hell?” This is all Tony is able to think. Why now? Why like this? They could have gone the usual route and sent some hooker after Steve to take compromising pictures, or simply attacked his delicate morals by reminding him what a depraved person Tony really is. Anything but this blatant attempt to ruin several people’s lives by pulling their personal problems to the surface for everyone to see.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” Howard sneers, the words slurring the slightest bit into each other.

No, Tony is not surprised. Neither that his father would not stand by and let him find something resembling happiness, nor that Steve would walk out on him. It still feels like a hundred fissures are running through his insides; one wrong step and he will shatter.

“You’re not even denying it then?”

Some people would call honesty a virtue, but in their house, it has always been a weapon. Just once Tony would have liked his father to not look at him like the disappointment he is, the _utter waste of space_. He might not have trusted sympathy coming from the man who never had any for him, but it surely must be better than this.

“Would you believe me if I did?” Howard echoes his thoughts, of course he does. “Blindness doesn’t suit you. Starks are –”

“Spare me the Stark bullshit,” Tony snaps, wondering where the sudden surge of strength comes from. He just knows he cannot listen to another litany about the supposed superiority of Starks when a truly good man has just turned his back on him. “What do you think you’re actually going to achieve with this?”

Tony knows the answer to that of course. He is at his most ingenious when he is heartbroken, when nothing else matters but drowning out the grief in his mind, when he encases his thoughts in equations so at least something makes sense. Howard naturally prefers that version of him, the pliable, profitable boy under his thumb, instead of the one that goes off on his own to seek happiness.

“You’ve lost your focus, boy. Your place is here.” It could almost be funny, how Howard only ever says that when Tony threatens to wander away and never when he has looked for inclusion. “The world doesn’t stop turning just because you decide to have a romp with some no-name –”

That, at least, still enkindles Tony’s fury. “You should be careful what you are going to call Steve.”

Steve will always be the better man, and Tony cannot even blame him for going, because even while he wants to bury himself in Steve’s arms and be told that this changes nothing, he can appreciate this chance to not keep ruining him.

“Dammit, boy, this little crush of yours is going too far. Obadiah was right.”

Ice floods Tony’s insides, taking all his fury, and leaving him only with sudden dread. Obadiah had always been his ally, encouraging his more adventurous projects and applauding his successful ones, standing up to Howard at times and letting him back into the workshop when he was locked out. Despite the business and his friendship with Howard, Obadiah had always been a father-figure to Tony. To think that he, too, railed against his relationship with Steve, is almost too much to process at once.

“What does Obie have to do with all of this?” Tony asks, just to get clarification, to maybe hear that this has been, after all, only Howard’s plan.

His hopes get smashed almost immediately when Howard laughs, as honest a sound as he ever manages, if only for its humourless satisfaction. “Who do you think had the idea?” Howard lets these words sit between them for a long moment, probably listening for Tony’s heart breaking all over again. “It’s also a good thing he’s on our side, because he had no troubles at all getting all the information on your lovely friends. Russian spies, really?”

It takes effort to keep his temper under control, but he is sure that Steve is telling his friends about Tony’s supposed betrayal, likely rendering him back to the state of an outsider, effective immediately, so it would not do to start a war with his father over them just now.

“What were you trying to achieve with this?” he asks, voice hoarse, aching for an answer that is not _Because you’re of no use to me like this._

“I’ve told you from the very beginning, that boy doesn’t have what it takes to survive our life,” Howard snaps, sounding as if he truly believes that this life of theirs is worth all the lies and shiny facades. “Do you think the press would have left you alone? That they would have been kind?”

Ever since the moment Howard pushed him in front of a camera when he was four, holding his first circuit board in hand, there have been articles about him. He never expected that his involvement with Steve would be exempted from that. It was all the same old questions – wondering whether it was going to last, what Steve was going to get out of it – so it was easy to ignore. He has been reading this stuff about himself for over two decades now.

“This wasn’t the press,” Tony bites out between clenched teeth. “This was _you_.”

“We just sped the process along. He was always going to leave.” Howard has the gall to sound annoyed at Tony’s continued resistance. “We can’t afford to lose that much time. If we need to, we have some follow-up articles prepared.”

With a start, Tony realizes that Howard must be more drunk than usual, because he is the very picture of a functioning alcoholic, and no stranger to manipulation. Most of the time, he is better at this game, at withholding his cards until it is too late for everyone else to do something about it. If the situation were not such a mess, Tony might have laughed. Obadiah will be so furious that Howard just blurted out their nice little plan at the slightest pressure.

“You really have no shame at all.”

Following his usual pattern, Howard ignores him. “So, when can we expect you to arrive?”

This is worse than an order, worse than a threat to screw up Steve’s life more directly. Howard simply expects Tony to duck his head and fall in line – like he has done so many times before.

With anger clawing at his insides, Tony spews, “Keep up your good work and it will be never.”

Tony wishes it would be that easy. As much as he tells himself that he has been trying to get out for years, he always ends up going back.

Not waiting for an answer, he ends the call. They always say things other people might regret, but this seems the only form of dialogue they are capable of. It is not so much of a surprise then that he makes a mess of everything else too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think!  
> All the best to you!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I'm very nervous about this, because I've got so many ideas (thanks to you wonderful people) and have to somehow decide on a direction while wanting to do all of them. Anyway, expect things to become worse in this chapter.  
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting. I can't express how much this means to me!

For minutes or hours, Tony sits motionless in Steve’s room, feeling the emptiness of the flat around him keenly. He does not know what to do. What he _wants_ is easy; he wants to find Steve and apologize for bringing his poison into their life, he wants to beg for another chance, for his understanding. Instinctively, he is aware that running after Steve right now would only make things worse. For now, his word stands against old panic and fear, and who would ever believe Tony?

He needs proof. Luckily for him, people usually leave traces these days, whatever they do, and he is very good at coaxing tech and code to give him exactly what he wants.

“JARVIS,” he says, wincing at how hollow his voice sounds. The screen of his phone lights up immediately, though, reassuring him that he will never be completely alone again, even if every living thing seems to run from him. “We have some digging to do.”

As much as he would prefer to forget Obadiah’s involvement at all, Tony needs to find out where he got his information. If he can learn the name of his source, he is one step closer to proving his innocence in this, and perhaps to preventing a repeat. In any case, it will be a peace offering, a chance to protect Steve.

It takes no effort at all to get into Obie’s SI accounts, and from there it is only a small step farther to his personal ones. What he expects to find is derogatory comments about Tony’s childish behaviour, maybe some risky promises of unnamed favours. What he finds instead does not leave much room peace of any kind.

It turns out that Obadiah did talk with someone overseas, somewhere in Afghanistan. Tony is sure it must be some military guy, someone who knows Steve and Bucky, perhaps, someone privy to classified information. How else would he know about Bucky’s imprisonment and subsequent rescue? Tony does not find anyone listed under the number, however, and he is not successful either with the mail address he digs up. Furthermore, this is not the first time Obadiah communicated with his mystery source. In fact, it goes back _years_. None of this makes any sense.

There could be a completely innocent explanation for all of it. Maybe the contact is part of some secret agency, which would explain how they had information about Natasha’s apparent double dealing and changing sides – this day has been crazy enough that he does not even doubt that some part of the Russian spy story is true. Stark Industries does have a number of contracts with the military, so Obadiah is naturally in regular contact with the brass and government officials. Although he somehow doubts that even Obadiah’s trained persuasion skills could make someone give up classified information about secret agents, just because he wants to teach his godson a lesson.

Which, in turn, has a very ugly suspicion nagging at Tony. He remembers countless arguments between his father and Obie about expanding their contracts beyond the US Army. Howard is a patriot at heart, but Obadiah is a businessman through and through, so what if he just went ahead and found himself some buyers on his own? There is only one other group of people who would have reliable information about what happened during hushed up hostage situations overseas – the very people who had taken Bucky in the first place, who SI is producing weapons to fight against.

His head whirling, Tony realizes he is thinking about treason here, and that he cannot say with complete certainty that Obadiah would not do this. He does not want to get ahead of himself, however. He is hurt and upset, which is not the right state of mind to try to come to conclusions without seeing actual proof.

He hesitates only for a fraction of a moment before he decides that he is going to keep looking. There are things better left untouched, no one knows that better than a Stark, but he cannot give up now, since he is not doing this just for himself.

Even with his ugly suspicions in mind, nothing could have prepared him for what he finds. First are the pictures. He barely recognizes Bucky in them, short-haired and dead-eyed, looking more like a corpse than a breathing man, a mess of blood and broken bones. Bucky is not the only prisoner, but the only one Obadiah was interested in. Then there is grizzled evidence of Steve storming the enemy base, looking nothing like the mild-mannered man Tony thought he knew. Clint is right at his side, and then there is nothing but a flash of red hair until the documentation of the rescue ends abruptly. There is no official military report attached, no names or ranks or debriefing details. Nothing hints at this coming from a military source, although Tony still cannot – does not _want_ to – explain why Obadiah would converse with terrorists.

He regrets digging deeper. It begins with small irregularities in accounting and leads to whole shipments missing, prototypes vanishing only to be grabbed by greedy hands and adjusted for darker purposes.

Tony should be used to betrayal, but this one hits him completely unprepared, claws its way in between his ribs only to settle with a death grip around his heart, squeezing until the screen swims in front of his eyes.

He spends hours confirming his findings until there is no doubt about it anymore: Obadiah is dealing with weapons under the table, and has been doing so for years. It is depressingly easy to find out for someone with Tony’s talents, if only because he knew to look. The rest of the night, he makes sure that Howard did not know, because he might not like his father very much, but this would be too much of a blow. There is no evidence that Howard is involved in any way, which is a relief but not much of a consolation. In fact, he should almost be grateful that Howard saw the need for this article or Obadiah could have kept doing this for years to come.

When Tony has finished his research, secured all his evidence, and erased all traces of him ever being in Obadiah’s accounts, he sits back, just breathing, and does not know what to do. Checking the time, he finds that almost a day has passed since Steve stormed out on him. Almost a day and he has not come back.

Tony’s mind is too alert for him to feel tired, even though there is a heaviness to his bones that makes it very hard to move. This is not only about him, however, so he pockets the USB drive with his evidence before turning towards the door without any clear plan where he is going. He just knows that he cannot stay here, in Steve’s home, where everything reminds him of the happiness of the past weeks.

He should call his father, or maybe check in with Rhodey first to make sure he has not gone completely off the bender. He is talking about treason here, about Obie giving their enemies weapons to kill their soldiers, men and women like Steve and his friends, who believe in something only to be repaid with death, delivered by perfectly formed, SI-issued barrels.

Tony has never been one for making sensible choices, so, since Obadiah is too far away to punch, he leaves the flat in search for the only other person who matters right now.

 

* * *

 

There are no sounds coming from Clint and Nat’s flat, but it is not difficult at all for Tony to find out that Steve’s phone is right here as well as all of his friends’ phones too. He would be more impressed with the marvels of modern technology if knowing they are only a few feet away from him would make it more bearable to be reduced to hammering at the door without ever getting an answer.

He has been at it for half an hour now, alternating between knocking and calling and simply pleading with them to let him in. It is not so much resilience keeping him here but desperation, because he does not know where else to go. Pepper is his friend, but she is also affiliated with SI, and he honestly does not want to test her loyalties on that, not while he is in a compromised emotional state. Rhodey, once he hears about Tony’s accusations, will not be stopped from trying to get to the bottom of this. The last thing Tony needs now is to start trouble. And his family has just turned out to include one lying scumbag. He does not have anywhere, anyone else.

“Steve,” he shouts, the name already beginning to feel foreign on his tongue, almost a thing of the past. “Please open the door. Steve, anyone.”

He has nearly forgotten the argument that started all of this, has managed to block out the fact that Steve thinks he had a hand in that article for whatever ludicrous reason. None of that bears any weight, compared to what he has just now found out.

Tony must have been annoying enough, or someone decided to have pity on him, because he hears footsteps coming towards the door, and almost sags in relief when the key is turned in the lock. He does not have any time to brace himself before he comes face to face with Clint, who looks at him with detached exhaustion that is only underlined by the dark bags under his eyes.

“What?” he asks, although not as unkindly as he could have been.

It is not actually a lifeline thrown to Tony, but at least he is not shut out completely anymore, even though the distance between them is a tangible thing. Tony might not yet have been declared the enemy, but he is definitely an outsider again.

“I need to talk to Steve.”

Tony does not even know anymore why it is so important to see Steve. Everything is falling apart around him and one man cannot do anything against that, especially not one who is so hell-bent on leaving him. Up until this morning, however, he has felt so very safe in Steve’s arms, like he has finally come home, and he is yearning for even a fraction of this feeling now.

“Well,” Clint drawls, looking him up and down with something like pity, “Steve does not want to talk to you at the moment.”

Already, the door is closing again, and Tony feels like throwing himself against it, anything to keep it open. He does not even try to hide his desperation.

“I know who wrote the article,” he all but yells, trying to figure out whether Clint would shut the door by force if he put his hands in the gap to keep it open. His musings are interrupted when Clint chuckles bitterly.

“Some of your reporter friends, right?” he says, all sympathy gone from his voice. “You must be chummy with all of them by now.”

Tony thinks it thoroughly unfair that, just last week, they had all been laughing about some of the ridiculous stuff the press wrote about him, but now he is pushed back to their side of the equation, already a stranger again.

“My father –” Tony starts, wondering how one can confess to something like that; that his parents would go to such lengths to sabotage him. He never gets to finish, though, because Clint cuts him off, not giving even an inch.

“Isn’t that the go-to excuse of all rich brats?” Clint sneers, a hint of anger sneaking into his voice. “Either ‘it’s not my fault, my parents raised me this way’ or ‘wait until my father hears about this.’ We don’t have time for this bullshit.”

He sounds so certain, his mind made up about the kind of person he is, that Tony thinks this must be what they have thought of him all along. Maybe the friendship was a lie, after all. Steve said it too, speaking about _his kind_ and _playing with the pleb_.

“So, you’ll let them win?” It is meant as a challenge but comes out pleading, because Tony already knows the answer.

“As far as we’re concerned, you already have.” It is obvious then, that Clint knows how to hurt people too. He dismisses Tony with casual cruelty, pointed to hurt. “We’re all a mess, thanks to someone not being able to keep their mouth shut.”

Tony takes a step back, gives up on trying to keep Clint talking until he maybe lets him in. It is a curious thing, how easily desperation escalates into numbness. No matter how terrifying it is to watch his life run through his hands, that first rush of panic is still accompanied by hope. Now, though, he feels resignation reclaim him, one of his oldest friends come to greet old scars.

“I had nothing to do with that article,” Tony says, because he needs them to know, even if they will not believe him, even if it does not matter anymore because this chapter is already over for them, and the whole book is about to be burned.

Then Clint makes everything worse by pulling his lips up into a sharp-edged caricature of a smile, already turning around to go. “Why don’t you tell that to someone who cares?”

This is it, the end of something that could have been wonderful. Tony feels like his spine is disintegrating into dust. All he wants is to curl up and shut out the world, to pretend that the past two days have not happened. If he falls asleep right now, maybe he will wake up in Steve’s arms in the morning, and all of this has been nothing but a bad dream, quickly fading from his mind. He is no stranger to nightmares, and they can hurt too, but it is a different sort of pain, too focused and unrelenting.

“I think my godfather is selling weapons to terrorists.”

Tony would not have recognized his own voice if he had not felt the words crawl up his throat, leaving the bitter taste of metal and the sharp pang of betrayal. He did not want to say this, not now that he is not their problem anymore, but he cannot help it, has to get it off his chest in the hopes to be able to breathe properly again.

Clint’s eyes narrow, some of the anger dropping from his features, but he does not turn back to Tony, does not stop his retreat. “What does that have to do with us?” he asks, making it clear this is a rejection.

Even though Tony has not expected anything else, he feels it like a blow. He nods, wondering where he will find the strength to keep his back straight, to walk down the stairs and find his way back to New York, where Howard’s satisfied smirk is waiting for him and Obie’s treacherous smiles, where he will have to deal with Pepper’s pity and Rhodey’s righteous, if unsurprised, anger. Never before has he wanted to just walk away and leave everything behind, the good and the bad. He has a responsibility, though, now more than ever, he is just not sure whether he will be able to tackle it.

Nodding awkwardly at Clint, Tony is suddenly glad he was not allowed into the flat. The result is the same – their acquaintance is over and Tony’s heart is broken – but at least he did not have to listen to Steve telling him to go a second time. It was bad enough to hear Clint say that they do not care.

He is already halfway down the first flight of stairs, each step dropping more weight onto his shoulders, when he hears Nat’s voice from somewhere inside the flat.

“Let him in,” she calls, a refined coldness in her voice that squashes all hopes of her coming to his rescue.

As it is, Tony contemplates to just keep walking. Whatever she has to say, he is sure it is nothing kind, nothing that he actually wants to hear.

“That’s not-” Clint protests where Tony cannot, but he is cut off by Natasha.

“Clint,” she says. It is a clear warning, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Then she is there, looking more dangerous than Tony has ever seen her, even while in sweatpants and with her hair wild. She pushes Clint to the side, looks at Tony in calculating scrutiny, and jerks her head at the hall before disappearing back inside, dragging Clint after her. This leaves Tony staring after them, contemplating whether it really was a good idea to come here. Then again, the only thing he can lose anymore, is his dignity, and he has arguable never had much of that anyway.

These people owe him nothing. The only reason why they are even involved is that Stane dug up dirt on them to get Tony back in line, which put him on a trail he almost wishes he had not followed. Perhaps he is seeing ghosts, perhaps his imagination has simply gone overboard in his anger. There could be an entirely reasonable explanation for all of this. Accounting could have made a mistake. Shipments get lost in active warzones. Someone could have been using Obadiah’s name and accounts without his knowledge. Obie is his godfather, who went out of his way to encourage Tony even while his own father did not, so it feels disloyal to accept the worst at the first trickle of doubt.

For a long while, Tony can do nothing but stare at the suddenly open door to Clint and Natasha’s flat, beckoning him to come in. When he finally does, he feels like an intruder, which only gets worse when he stumbles into the living room where Bucky has made himself as small as possible on one side of the couch with Steve hovering just out of grabbing distance, deep lines etched onto his face, which only deepen when his eyes fall on Tony.

“What is he doing here?” he asks, not a hint of familiarity in his tone. Even worse, he slightly shifts his position so that he blocks Tony’s view of Bucky, as if he feels the need to physically protect his friend from his ex-lover.

“Shush. I told him to come in,” Natasha chides him. She leans against the back of the couch, looking out at all her friends like a skewed sort of guardian angel. “I think we all need to sit down and talk.”

Hysteria rises in Tony’s stomach. Neither of them is very good at communicating, especially not where emotions are involved.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Steve snaps, looking disgusted, but also like he is hardly even listening, most of his attention is focused on his best friend. Even while it hurts, Tony wonders what it would feel like to have this kind of single-minded attention directed at him.

“You always knew the press would get involved sooner or later.”

Tony does not know why Natasha is defending him all of a sudden, but he is not naïve enough to think she is on his side. Her argument also reminds him that they still think he is here about that article. He is, in a way, but this thing has become so much bigger all of a sudden. What does he care about the press, when he has just found out about his godfather’s betrayal?

“Not like this,” Steve repeats what he said to Tony the day before, but instead of anger, there is only exhaustion left, and something that can only be resentment.

“I never wanted this to happen,” Tony says, hoping they will believe that at least.

A wave of resentment rushes through the room. Clint snorts and huddles closer into his armchair, which has been turned to look at where Bucky is sitting on the couch. That makes it all the easier for him to avoid looking at Tony. Natasha crosses her arms in front of her, studying him with something less than kindness. It is almost as if a line is drawn between them, with Tony on one side and the four friends on the other. At least no one has physically lashed out at him yet. Although he almost wishes they would, just to give all the pain inside him a tangible reason.

“Yeah,” Steve says hoarsely, not even glancing at Tony, “we all have stuff we wish we could take back.” He does not clarify what he means, but Tony is sure it involves him.

Watching them, he realizes what a big mistake it has actually been to come here. For him, this is about his relationship with Steve, and about Stane, who he thought to be a friend but who might just be using his father’s brain and company for money. For them, this is so much more. During previous conversations, Steve has hinted at how hard it was to come home. It is not a stretch to imagine, of course. To have all of that dragged back to daylight without warning, the collected drama of several lifetimes, and all because of their association to him – Tony wonders why they have not yet thrown him out, what Natasha hopes to achieve by subjecting Steve to seeing him again.

Tony already knows he is going to leave. He will not burden them with his problems on top of their own. They are not responsible for him, or obliged to offer their assistance. This is his own battle, and none of them will stand at his side for it. There is just one thing he has to make clear. He can live with them deciding he is not worth the trouble, but not with them thinking he did this to them willingly.

“Obadiah Stane,” he says and trails off, unsure of how to continue. There is just no easy way to do this. “My father decided that I’ve had enough freedom and wasted enough time that I could have better spent working, so he and my godfather made this article happen.” Wincing, because he knows it is at least partly the truth, he adds, “He said it’s nothing that wouldn’t have come anyway.”

“Give them our thanks then, for not unnecessarily pushing off the inevitable,” Clint drawls, his voice utterly unforgiving.

Steve has still not even glanced at Tony again. He tries to take this as a mercy, because dismissal is surely better than whatever he would find in Steve’s eyes.

“I tried to find out where they got all the information.” Completely involuntary, Tony’s gaze trails over to Bucky, who has not looked up once since he has come in but seems lost in his own world, unbearably tense but one the verge of dissolving into a shivering mess. “I hacked their accounts, and I found some irregularities.”

Tony does not know why he draws this out, why he insists on his monologue like a three-pence villain not yet willing to die. No one here will care about his findings, and why should they?

Barely holding back a sigh, already preparing himself for his walk of shame back out of the apartment, out of Steve’s life, Tony fixes his gaze on Natasha. If anyone, this concerns her the most. They might be caught up in their personal wounds for now, but this has real consequences too. The article did not just sprout lies for the public, but also contained valuable information for everyone able to pick it out between the exaggerated drama.

“I don’t know how much you’re still involved with – things.” Tony has read the dossier about the Russian assassin code-named Black Widow, has made the necessary connections, but he has not pried any further. “Stane is selling weapons under the table. I don’t know for how long or to whom, but I’m sure this is how he has gotten contacts who could get him classified information and detailed reports about a certain incident,” he cannot help another glance at Bucky, “and missions. He also has quite the number of friends both in politics and the brass.”

“Is this a threat?” Natasha asks, her voice as cold and firm as he would expect from someone with her codename.

Were he not so utterly exhausted, Tony might have laughed. Here he thought he had built the kind of rapport with these people that did not have them expecting him to be the villain the very moment something goes wrong.

In a strange way, though, she does not even look so different now than she has done every other time they have met, even though she has given up all pretence of not being dangerous. Assassin or not, Natasha has always had the air of someone used to getting her way, no matter how.

“I thought you’d appreciate the warning that getting involved with me might have put you in the spotlight. I’m sure Stane will leave you alone once I’m gone,” Tony says, shrugging as if the words do not cost him more energy than he actually has to spare. It is the truth though. Stane’s endgame, he is sure, is to have Tony’s brain back on track, so he can make more money off him. “But I cannot speak for anyone else he’s affiliated with. Especially since I do not know yet who that is. He’s thrown your existence out there for anyone to use.”

He will find out who is involved, of course he will. It will be a lonely, bone-grinding fight, turning over so many things he has believed in for all his life. Although he will need a project, anyway, to get over his broken heart, so why should he not take out the villain in their midst.

Natasha frowns, studying him closely, but no one is saying anything. Clint stares ahead at the wall, his entire posture utterly unforgiving, and Steve is still focused completely on Bucky, his legs twitching, likely from the holding himself back to not cross the distance between him and his best friend – or, of course, because he wants nothing more than to march Tony out of their lives himself, to close this door and never open it again.

Embarrassed and completely out of his depth, Tony lets his shoulders fall. “I’ll let you know if I find any names.”

For a moment, it occurs to him how ridiculous he is being. He should go to the police and turn over his findings. It should not be hard to make up an excuse as to how he found it. He is brimming with fury, though, deep beneath the numbness coating his brain and skin. For all that he hates his father at the moment for trusting the wrong kind of person, he does believe that Howard has no clue about what is happening. He has his ideals, skewed as they may be, and making deals with terrorists does not actually align with them. There is no way anyone will believe that, though. Howard and Obadiah have been friends for decades, and if one falls, the other is going down with him. Tony will not let that happen. He can also already taste the sweetness of revenge on the back of his tongue.

The silence in the room becomes suffocating in the way that endings usually are. In a nervous gesture, Tony raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling like he is going to shatter into a million little parts. This is it then.

“If there is anything else I can do,” he says before he can stop himself, and bites his tongue immediately afterwards, hard enough to draw blood. Such an idiot move, as if he has not done enough already. He realizes abruptly that he needs to get out. Somehow, he gets his legs to move, carrying him back towards the door he had, only minutes earlier, been so determined to get in through.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he hears someone say in his back, but all of that is wishful thinking. He is not welcome here, and there is no reason he should be.

He makes it as far as the building’s hall, the door safely closed behind him, before he collapses at the top of the stairs, legs just giving out underneath him. Briefly, he thinks it would be a mercy to just tumble down the stairs and be done with it, but that is Howard speaking from the beckoning abyss that is his mind, telling him for the hundredth time what a useless idiot he is. Breathing becomes difficult, and still he has the mental capacity to scoff at himself. What right does he have to fall apart right now? What has happened to him but another article badmouthing him and another person showing he never cared for Tony? None of this is new. Steve and his friends, however, are the ones who have been wronged, who have had all their bad memories dragged to light through no fault of their own. Tony truly ruins everything he touches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading. If you've got any ideas, feelings or incoherent ramblings to get off your chest, feel free to send them my way.  
> All the best to you!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to say how grateful I am for all the comments I've got. You are amazing! (And I'm still so nervous that I'll disappoint you.) Without your input, I might have taken the easy road, but I'm trying to avoid that.   
> Thank you, honestly! And now, enjoy.

It feels like an eternity that Tony spends in the strange limbo between wanting to run and not being able to move. He just lets his thoughts wage their war against him. Memories clash inside his head; Obie throwing his arm around Tony’s shoulder after some award ceremony his father did not care to come to, and then Obie watching him work with a glint in his eyes that Tony always interpreted as encouragement if not pride but that could have been greed instead. His father features heavily, whispering about disappointments and shouting in disgust. There is Steve too, his hands slipping down Tony’s back, holding him close as they kiss, only to disintegrate into thin air, laughing as he leaves. The weight of it all presses down on Tony’s sternum, re-breaking his heart in places he never quite managed to mend.

When the panic clears somewhat from Tony’s mind, he is not alone anymore. Across from him on the stairs sits Clint, humming under his breath and nursing a cup of what smells like coffee. As soon as he notices Tony coming around, he pushes another cup towards him, not offering an explanation for his presence.

Tony is afraid to ask. The door to the apartment is closed and no sound is coming from it. He does not want to think back on what led to him landing on these stairs, so he accepts the cup and sips the almost cold coffee, which only worsens the churning feelings in his stomach.

“Are you here to make sure I actually leave this time?” Tony rasps, once he is rooted enough in the presence again to regain some of his determination to deal with this whole drama. As much as he hates endings, he wants to go on, to stop hurting, even though he knows it will be a long time until he does.

Clint smiles humourlessly. “I’m here to prevent you from doing something stupid,” he sounds altogether kinder than he has all day.

“I was on my way out,” Tony promises, wondering whether his legs are strong enough again to carry him. “Just needed a short break.”

“We all do.”

Something is different. Clint is not back to his easy grin and careless attitude, far from it, but he does not wear as forbidding an expression anymore either, does not look at Tony as if he is merely a nuisance come to disturb their peace.

The coffee feels like an apology, although Tony does not deserve one. He still drowns it to the last drop, if only because the caffeine might be the only thing that will keep him going until he gets somewhere safe where he can properly break down.

“Thanks,” he says, putting down the cup with more care than the gesture actually warrants, but he does not want to break anything else. “I’ll be going then.”

Clint shakes his head, wearing a somewhat conflicted expression. “Nat wants to speak with you.”

It is not a question. No one dares refuse when Natasha wants something. Tony does not have the energy to fight anyway. Maybe she wants to offer him some information to make his upcoming battle easier, or maybe she wants to find out what he knows. He will not let any more details about her surface, but perhaps she does not know that, or thinks she has to threaten him into keeping her secrets. What do they actually know about each other, all of them?

He allows Clint to pull him to his feet, but keeps a careful distance afterwards. Nat might have pushed everyone into suffering his presence for a little while longer, but Tony will not make it any harder on them than he has to.

When they get back into the flat, Steve and Bucky are gone. They could have simply withdrawn into one of the bedrooms, but maybe they climbed over his panicking, frozen form out on the stairs without him even noticing. The worst thing is, he can picture that easily, the slight expression of disgust on Steve’s face upon finding him still there, but other than that nothing but apathy as he guides Bucky down and home, to a place Tony could have never hoped to join.

Clint steers him to the couch and all but pushes him to lie down. His face is still taut enough to discourage Tony from asking any questions, especially since he is better off not knowing certain things.

Things get only more confusing when Natasha comes in, bearing a pillow and blanket, which she puts down next to him without giving any indication that this is somehow unusual. She goes so far as to almost tuck Tony in when he makes no move to actually do anything himself, still too dazed to even hope understanding what is going on.

“Sleep,” she says, but she could have spoken another language altogether for how much Tony comprehends the word. Not so long ago, he has been hammering against their door, begging to be let in, only to be told to leave, and now they offer him their couch. Sometime the day before, the world has stopped making sense to Tony.

“What?” He refuses to register the softness of the cushions beneath him, feeling exhaustion pulling him down.

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, not making anything clearer. Her lips pull into something that could be a smile but looks more like she has smelled blood. Suddenly, she is a predator, ready to go on the hunt. “I’ll take care of this.”

She pats Tony’s shoulder and, with a calculated sort of elegance, strolls out of the room, leaving behind one puzzled genius and an unfazed Clint.

“What does she mean by that?” Tony asks. “She’s not going to, like, I mean, there aren’t going to be dead bodies, right?”

In his defence, Tony has just learned that she used to be an assassin, or maybe still is. How else is he to interpret as vague a promise as this?

Clint, who is still unusually morose, grins bitterly, “Would that be so bad?”

Tony’s first impulse is to say no. Beneath his exhaustion, there is still rage simmering. He is furious with his father for ruining this one good thing he had, with Steve for not giving him the benefit of the doubt and walking out on him, with Obadiah for going behind their backs for years. He feels like he is going loose at his seams, all his fears and wishes and hopes threatening to spill out.

Still, he says, “Yes?” but does not sound as firm as he would have liked. Despite everything, murder is not quite the plan of action he would be going for.

“There’s no stopping her either way.” Clint shrugs, clearly already resigned to just weather Natasha’s moods as they come. “So you had better do as she says and sleep.”

He looks ready to leave, but Tony shoots upright again and reaches out for Clint.

“I don’t want my father to know about this.”

Tony cannot quite say why this is important. Even when they are not outright fighting, he does not like Howard very much, but he would never go so far as to lord Obadiah’s betrayal over him. In a way, Tony wants to spare him. This is hurting him a lot already, so he can only imagine how it would be for his father, who had been friends with Stane for longer than Tony has been alive. Stane needs to be dealt with, naturally, but Tony has already rejected the idea of handing him over to the police, so why not go a step farther and make this go away quietly. A blow like this will only make Howard deteriorate further. Even ignoring the aspect of self-protection, he would like to avoid that.

Clint cocks his head to the side and looks at him strangely, but ultimately only nods. “I’ll talk to her.”

With that pressing matter lifted from his shoulders, Tony sags in relief, marvelling at how he can even feel the comforting weight of the blanket when he still feels mostly numb.

It should be harder, Tony thinks as darkness already tugs at his mind, falling asleep after the day he has had, after these revelations, after losing this much. But he is engulfed by warmth, and the cushions are relentless in pulling him under. A small, stubborn part of him still hopes all of this was just a nightmare, so he will blame it on this that he is fast asleep before Clint has even left the room. Maybe, once he wakes, the world will be all right again.

 

* * *

 

The world is _not_ all right when Tony wakes, he is on a couch instead of a bed, wrapped too tightly in a blanket instead of being held safe in Steve’s arms. He does not get a long moment of blissfulness, in which he can pretend the past days have not happened, his mind does not work like that. Instead, he slides from his fitful sleep directly into a state of dreading alertness. Once he opens his eyes, there is no going back.

Someone is talking quietly in another room and then there is the sound of a coffee machine being turned on – which Tony could pick out between a thousand other sounds, even though this one is horribly outdated and not living up to its potential. If he could get his hands on it – but he will not, he knows that with the kind of clarity that hurts.

Whatever reason Clint and Natasha had for their misplaced decision to take him in, it cannot last. It would not be fair on them to linger here, to let them take care of him when they have their own problems to deal with. He does not have any excuse anymore to linger, to sit around and stare at the door in the hopes of Steve coming in. Tony should cut his losses and leave, but he has always been too fixed on what his heart wants – and that is still Steve, despite the pain, despite the mere foolishness of wanting to try again when they have already screwed up twice.

There is so much to do, so many fires to put out, Tony cannot afford to hide. Before he even sits up on the couch, he decides to find his phone and book the first flight to New York. The thought of his empty penthouse pains him, but then it is hard to find anything that does not hurt.

Upon entering the kitchen, Tony finds both his hosts there, busy with what has the distinctive air of a tradition. Natasha sits on the kitchen counter in nothing but boxers and a shirt that is two sizes too big on her, holding a coffee cup with her eyes closed, while Clint bustles around her, singing along with the radio, while preparing breakfast.

A third plate sits innocently on the table, making Tony’s throat constrict. He cannot allow the comfort this scene offers to draw him in, however, so he opens his mouth to tell them about his plans, only to flinch when Clint appears in front of him without warning, clicks his tongue, and pushes a cup in his hands.

“No talk about business before the first coffee,” he admonishes lightly and goes back to scrambling eggs.

This does not feel like he is thrown out, and Tony does not know how to deal with that. Loyalty is very important among this group, so it does not make sense that Clint would put his friendship on the line by being nice to Tony.

There is nothing Tony can do but stare. What does Clint mean by that? Surely they do not want to be involved, albeit they might just feel the need to make sure he will not make things worse for them. He will have to reassure them that he can be careful. Now that he has been made aware of the problem, he will keep them safe as best as he can. It is the least he can do.

He still follows Clint’s instruction and keeps his mouth shut, sitting down at the table after his silent offer to help with breakfast was denied. It will be nice to share a last meal with them, even though he should know better than to draw this out. He cannot remember the last time he has eaten, too, with all that has been happening. Must have been with Steve, though. Before.

Somehow, Clint manages to keep the atmosphere light while they eat. He allows no indication that there is anything amiss with Tony sitting at their table, silent and subdued, nursing his broken heart, or with how even Natasha’s relaxed position whispers of danger.

Before either of them can say something themselves, Tony blurts out, “I’m going home.” He winces at how rough his voice sounds, how it breaks halfway through _home_. Because where is that if not here, with the blonde who has thrown him away so easily?

He has his penthouse and the manor, but both are filled with demons; one is too empty and the other too loud. He has Pepper and Rhodey, but they will be angry on his behalf and still ask him what he has done wrong, because they know him, know that there is no pit of misery he does not willingly jump into.

Home, to Tony, has always been people, no matter how little luck he has in that regard. It is Pepper’s perfume and the familiar clicking of her heels. It is Rhodey’s jackets and his mother’s cooking. It is Jarvis’ embraces and undivided attention. Despite the pain, Steve is still among that list too, his smiles and warmth and the way he said _I love you_ every morning.

Shaking off the bitterness of these thoughts, Tony looks up only to find Clint staring at him, uncomprehending, while Natasha has a single eyebrow raised in question, even while she otherwise remains poised and calm. It is strangely comforting that she does not appear changed even after all of these revelations, even though she is the one with an actual double life he knew nothing about.

“You what?” Clint asks, sounding indignant of all things.

Any other time, Tony would latch onto that happily, trying to turn things back in his favour, to _stay_ even when he should not. He has made his decision, though, and thinks it is the right one.

“I don’t know what you mean by saying you’ll take care of this,” he says, turning to Natasha, who gives him time to find the right words, “but this is my mess. I need to deal with it myself.”

While she keeps looking at him, searching for something, Clint jerks forward, stabbing his fork in Tony’s direction. “You don’t –”

“I don’t what?” Tony cuts him off sharply. It is unfair to lash out at Clint, who seems like he is trying to make up for his behaviour the day before, but Tony is tired of people telling him what he can and cannot do, tired of being doubted and pushed around. “I _can’t_ because I’m not some Russian spy and have therefore not yet killed my share of people?”

Out of its own volition, his tone turns scathing. Clint flinches but Natasha does not.

“You’re too close,” she says simply, looking at him like she is not bothered by the possibility of discussing murder at the breakfast table.

“I’m too –” Tony snaps and sets down his coffee cup on the table because he can feel his fingers begin to tremble and he does not want them to see. “You know what? Yes, I’m close. He’s my godfather, for fuck’s sake. Which means I can’t sit by and let someone else handle this.”

Not, at least, in a way he will regret. Tony wants to get up and run, anything to not have to stare in Natasha’s calm face telling him that there is only one way to deal with this. He is not the kind of person who sees a problem and goes for the first possible answer. His brain creates solutions every minute of every day, so he can make it find one for this, one that does not have him hating himself for the rest of his life.

“I hate to be indelicate here, but Nat’s right,” Clint interrupts their staring, a hint of annoyance ringing in his tone. That, more than anything, tells Tony that he has made the right decision in telling them he is leaving. “You might be good at hacking and stuff, but this is much larger than pulling some files from military databases. You want revenge, I get that. The guy hurt you.”

Clint shrugs like he actually does understand, and Tony has to swallow the urge to sneer, because he might not have any clue about Clint’s childhood but he doubts Clint knows what it feels like to find out that his godfather has made millions by outfitting murderers with weapons Tony has created.

“But one misstep can bring this whole thing down on us,” Clint continues, oblivious to Tony’s internal struggle.

“Me,” Tony corrects tonelessly, avoiding their stares. “Down on _me_. You have no part in this.”

Apart from the way their names have been dragged into it and how Natasha is still in danger by having been indirectly exposed. He can find them information on that, though, can help them out without letting them follow him even farther down. The emotional side of this does not have to touch them.

“We’re your –” Clint starts but Tony has enough. He should thank them for making this easier on him but he feels mostly just exhausted.

“If you’re going to say _friends,_ I will practice my punching skills on you.” Tony would not. He has never liked violence and understood even less why some people think it is a solution to anything. He has received his fair share of punches, and he doubts he would feel any better about it if he were the one to throw them. None of that changes his feelings about whatever game Clint and Natasha are playing here. He had not expected Clint to stoop down to mocking the idiot genius, not when he is already about to give up. “Stop changing your mind every five minutes. I’m either the enemy or I’m not.”

They hesitate, if only for a moment, share a glance that tells Tony this does not come as a surprise to them, but they still do not have an immediate answer other than, “But we are.”

Bitterness spreads on the back of Tony’s tongue. “You’re _Steve’s_ friends, and he’s made it very clear he doesn’t –” _Love me anymore_. Tony does not say it, but it is a close thing. For someone who could barely believe Steve’s love declarations when they happened several times a day, he has a surprisingly hard time adjusting to the thought that Steve has finally come to his senses.

“I’m sorry for how all of this went down,” Clint says, sounding contrite but altogether too cautious.

In response, Tony scoffs. “Well, I was too, but apparently that wasn’t enough for you to at least listen to me.”

From an objective point of view, he is being unfair. It was Steve who left without giving Tony time to explain himself, without even making clear why he thought Tony should have any explaining to do. If he went to his friends like this, trembling and angry, and cited Tony as the cause, it is to be expected that his friends take his side. That does not change the fact that it hurt, being sent away by Clint and stared down by Natasha. _Why don’t you tell that to someone who cares?_ Tony is not stupid, he can take hints. If they react to him like that when they are in emotional turmoil, then that must be more honest than when they have time and energy to act as they think they should.

“Tony,” Clint sighs, a hint of pleading in the name.

“Doesn’t matter now.” Tony shrugs, even though it hurts. “You need to take care of yourself, of Steve and Bucky.” If he says it often enough, he might be able to believe that he does not need someone to take care of him too. “And I will take sort out my own mess.”

To his surprise – and, admittedly, slight disappointment, although that is just his foolish hope speaking – Natasha nods. “All right,” she says, earning herself a glare from Clint, which she ignores masterfully. “I understand if you want to go home. But you still don’t have to do this on your own.”

They have understood nothing. They only way Tony does things is fully or not at all. He cannot stick around them and let them take care of Stane without wanting to retain their friendship, which has already mostly dissolved right in front of him.

“What,” he says, his tone an ugly blend of scathing and hysterical, “are you suggesting you’ll hold my hand or that you’ll murder my godfather for me?”

At least Natasha does not react badly to his phrasing. He does not think he could have taken that.

“I can do both,” she offers utterly nonchalant.

Her calm causes the anger to slowly trickle out of Tony’s system. “No,” he shakes his head somewhat sadly, “that’s why this won’t work. You don’t fix problems by killing the cause.”

It might fix things. In any case, Stane would not be able to sell any more weapons, but Tony has been told hundreds of times that they are building weapons to create peace. He has never understood the sentiment, never believed in it. Now that he is more personally involved than he ever wanted, he still does not. It is a rather pitiful thing to admit, but Tony believes in redemption, in second chances. He is furious with what his godfather has done, and there is no possible reason to justify it, but that does not mean that Tony cannot offer him a way to make up for his wrongdoings. He has always been an optimist when it comes to other people, he just never has any leniency where he himself is involved.

Clint and Natasha look at each other like they are going to protest. Of course they would, both of them being soldiers, or whatever the official name is for someone like Natasha.

“People have already died,” Clint points out, not aiming to hurt but managing to nonetheless.

Tony could have done without the reminder of the countless of civilians and soldiers and crisis workers whose lives he has taken by building weapons and allowing them to be stolen. All of them are weighing on his conscious, he can already feel his walls cracking and groaning under that, but he cannot afford to break down just yet, not while there is still work to be done to keep more souls from being added to the list.

Nodding stiffly, Tony gets to his feet. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving.” He wants to thank them – for the weeks of happiness, for taking him back in last night, even for their offer to help – but does not know how without sounding dishonest, so he simply hopes that Natasha will do her magic and understand what he cannot say, and makes to leave.

“You can always call if you do need us after all.”

Tony has no doubts that Natasha will keep working on this on her own end, no matter what he says, but she has a right to it. Their association with him has put her in danger after all.

“I’ll send you everything I find that might be relevant to you,” he says, meaning it as a peace offering, which Natasha accepts with a smile.

She inclines her head in a way that seems to say _Take care_ , and puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder when it looks like he is going to go after Tony. Then, Tony is out the door, phone already in hand to call himself a taxi. As far as last glances go, this one was not bad at all, at least one of them was smiling and no one was drowning in panic. Watching a budding friendship end is never easy, but this one does not hold only regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. And now I'll wait with bated breath for what you're going to say about this.  
> All the best to all you wonderful people!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos and general support.  
> Here comes another chapter I'm unsure about, because here is where my Tony differs from canon!Tony and I am nervous what you're going to say to that.

Tony comes home with heavy feet, and donning a suit and smile has never been this hard, but he is still driven by that burning determination that had him reject Clint and Natasha’s offer for shelter and come back to New York. There are demons waiting for him everywhere, but he figures Obadiah is the only one he can do anything about at the moment.

He has plans and the vague hope to make this go away without tearing all of them down. Howard is still blissfully ignorant, and Tony wants him to remain so, which is why he has not announced his coming back to anyone yet, needing to deal with his godfather before he can return to his family, however that will go down. Tony is still angry at Howard, still devastated about the loss of something that could have been love, but he has been taught early on to compartmentalize. Making sure that no more weapons are sold illegally is simply more important than his personal drama, and could be a welcome distraction if it did not come with the bitter tang of betrayal.

The door to Obadiah’s office has never looked more imposing, like a barrier between them that Tony would like to keep shut. One last time, he thinks as he raises his hand to knock, only to almost laugh at himself. No matter how this meeting ends, he is sure he will walk through this door a hundred times to come inside his mind.

He goes in with his back straight, and still his steps falter when his eyes fall on his godfather, tall and imposing behind his desk but his features brightening when he recognizes Tony. The worst thing is that he does not look any different from usual. He greets Tony with the same joviality, his smile possesses the same sharp edges, his eyes the same searching glint – which has to mean that this treason was not a sudden development but that the potential was always there.

“Tony,” Obadiah straightens attentively but does not stand and come around his desk for a proper greeting. He has always known when not to make a spectacle out of things. If he treated Tony’s return as a miracle it would sabotage all his effort to make it seem like the natural course of things. “It’s good to come home, eh?”

Tony nods, not trusting himself to speak. All the words he has so carefully prepared get stuck in his suddenly constricted throat, leaving only room for mindless pleading, although he will sooner swallow his tongue than ask this man for anything, much less give him an opportunity to lie his way out of this.

“We were worried we’d lose you to the country, but you’ve never been one for stillness and what could be more alive than New York?” If Obadiah notices that anything is off with Tony’s behaviour, he does not show himself perturbed by it. In fact, he might not know yet that Howard has blabbed about his part in tearing Tony’s relationship apart, so it is no surprising that he acts the slightly concerned if ultimately unbothered surrogate uncle. “That’s what I told Howard at least. Have you been to see him yet?”

Needing the time to make sure his expression will remain calm, Tony turns to close the door to Obadiah’s office, lingering a moment too long to make sure it will hold fast. When he heads towards the desk, he has decided against playing games, which makes it so much easier to smile at his treacherous godfather.

“No, Obie,” he says, maybe a tad sharply, “I wanted to meet with you first.”

He comes to a halt next to the visitor chair, preferring to remain standing for another moment, if only so he can muster Obadiah from above.

“That’s my boy.” Obadiah nods, sounding like he is touched by Tony’s considerations. Every emotion looks false on him now, though, so Tony does not know what to make of him. “Are you all right?”

Tony almost laughs but masks it with a sigh as he lets himself fall into the chair. “I’ve had quite some time to think since, you know –” he trails off somewhat uncertainly, still foolishly hoping to glimpse an honest emotion on his godfather’s face, anything to tell him that there is at least some genuine connection between them.

“Oh, Tony,” Obadiah leans forward, the very picture of benevolence, “I know it’s hard, but you’ll find the right one for you, and until them you have so many good things to tide you over.”

“Weapons.” Tony had never known that such a flat tone could be infused with so much disgust. Yes, who would not want to trade love for war.

“I wish as much as you do that our world was different, kinder. But we’re working towards that. You and me, SI.” Obadiah smiles and smiles, and all his talk about them being a team does not distract from how often he has _pushed_ Tony to be on his side instead of building something together. “Each day we’re trying to make a better life for tomorrow.”

In that moment, Tony cannot understand how he ever believed a single word out of Obadiah’s mouth. He looks the part, yes, but Tony has been trained to wear masks, to say what other people want to hear. He never thought he would fail so spectacularly at recognizing another liar. This is it, he knows. There is no going back from this realization.

“Tell me, Obie,” Tony says, smirking around the name, even though he feels brittle, “how long have you been selling weapons to terrorists?”

This is not how he had wanted to go about this. He had planned to corner Obadiah in the hopes of finding out that he had made a mistake after all, instead of simply putting his suspicions out there between them. He is certain now, though, completely, without a doubt certain that Obadiah has done every ugly, terrible thing Tony’s research has hinted at. Possibly more, considering that there is no record of all the lies he told in private.

“What are you talking about?” Obadiah is good. There is surprise in his voice and his eyes widen on command. Tony wonders whether he has ever been truthful. Maybe it would even be easier to know that every bit of praise, every encouragement and familiarity was just as false. He is simply tired of it all.

“Could we please do this without all the lying?” Tony wants to rub his eyes or hide his face, anything to look away from Obadiah for even a moment, but he remains how he is, his back straight and his gaze burning into his godfather. “I’m not going to pull the morals card if you don’t waste our time denying what you’ve done.”

It is not that easy, naturally. Every cornered dog bites, and Obadiah shows his teeth by pulling their former closeness back into the game, and only succeeds in reminding Tony of what a fool he has been.

“My boy, I –”

It has always sounded kinder when Obadiah called him _boy_ , compared to the way Howard uses it as his go-to insult, containing all his disgust. With his godfather, it usually sounded like he was claiming kinship, like he would not mind having Tony as a son. More often than not, Tony had wished it was true.

“I have proof,” he cuts the other man off sharply. “Hundreds of missing shipments. Blueprints showing up where they shouldn’t. Large sums of money appearing on bank accounts that don’t officially exist.”

Watching Obadiah give up the pretence is not as satisfying as Tony had hoped it would be. There is no roaring anger, no justification, no sneering condescension. He simply drops the act. His pulls his shoulders up from the slight slouch that made him look less imposing, the smile falls away to make room for something almost bored, although there is a hint of fury simmering beneath.

“How?” Obadiah asks, sounding as calm as if they are discussing dinner plans instead of treason.

Tony grins sardonically. “You shouldn’t have interfered with my love life. Dad was rather forthcoming in telling me that you had somehow procured classified information on military operations on foreign soil.” He shrugs, downplaying the veritable turmoil he is still going through. “I was curious, dug a little too deep.”

“All right.” Obadiah leans back in his chair, arms wide open in a gesture of careless acceptance. “What do you want me to say?”

It is unnerving to see him so calm, like he has nothing to worry about. Tony had imagined more emotion. He essentially has Stane’s life in hand, depending on what he will do with the evidence he has found.

“Some remorse wouldn’t go amiss,” Tony snarls, feeling his composure slipping. Maybe Natasha was right and he _is_ too close. There is no going back now, however. 

“You didn’t want lies,” Obadiah points out, having the audacity to smirk.

A bout of bitter laughter crosses over Tony’s lips before he can stop it. “All right,” he says, thoroughly fed up with the conversation, “let’s talk business then.”

He copies Obadiah’s position to a certain point, leans back lazily with his head held high, invites the blows that are surely coming, because, in the end, he will have the upper hand here.

“What are you planning to do?” Obadiah asks in the same, distantly interested tone he used whenever they talked about one of Tony’s projects, indulgent, patient. All of it, apparently, calculated and false.

Tony studies him for a long moment before he nods to himself. “The whole flight here I thought I need to ask why, but I actually don’t want to know.” There is no justification for this, and he knows he will be hurt by whatever answer Obadiah will give. “I hope you have squirreled away enough money, because this stops right now.”

Tony surprises himself a bit with how hard his tone is, how unforgiving. It might just be a momentary lapse – Howard has been preaching for years that he is too weak after all – but it feels good, to know that he can shield himself this way when needed.

Still Obadiah does not show any sign of discomfort. In fact, his expression turns interested, even mildly amused. “Why did you come here alone?”

“Is that a threat?”

This is the moment Tony has been waiting for from the very beginning, when Obadiah has to make his choice whether he wants to listen to Tony or deal with a problem. The second drawer of the desk holds a gun, Tony has known that for years. Obadiah has shown it to him himself as he explained his five-year-old godson how a weapon works, what its flaws are, how he could improve them. Expecting Obadiah to draw that gun and point it at him might not be the most rational thought, but nothing about this situation follows any rules he can fathom. He does not know whether Obadiah has ever cared for him, but right now there is no room for sympathy from either of them.

“That depends,” Obadiah drawls, gesturing at the door. His hands remain constantly in sight. “I’m guessing the police is standing right outside?”

Tony considers lying, but self-preservation has never been his strong suit, and he has never been in the habit of saying things he cannot actually back up. “No,” he says slowly, making sure to look his godfather directly in the eyes. “No one knows, and no one has to.”

JARVIS is watching, of course, and Natasha has a copy of all his findings. If Tony ends up dead, Obadiah will still be brought to justice. Before he walked in here that seemed enough preparation.  

“You’re telling me you didn’t immediately run to daddy to tattle on me?” Obadiah’s tone is utterly condescending and ugly. It fits him too well. Interestingly enough, though, it feels like he is grasping for straws. If someone knows that Tony would not go to his father with any problem it is Obadiah, who has been Tony’s sounding board far too often and witnessed far too many of their explosive arguments.

“You wouldn’t still be sitting here if Howard knew,” Tony points out matter-of-factly.

A small part of him would have loved to see Howard tearing into his old friend like he usually does to Tony. He can imagine himself standing there, commenting on the spectacle with a crushing, _What was that line about not trusting anybody?_ Sadly, Tony’s sense of loyalty spreads to include his father to the bitter end.

“No, I want you gone, but I decided to give you a choice.” Tony is careful not to sound too eager or hopeful. This is not actually meant as a mercy, although it feels that way. “You’ll go quietly and it’ll stay our secret. Resign before the day’s over, your job and all your claims and stocks. You’ll never work for any other weapons or tech company again.” Smiling somewhat sadly, he adds, “Better yet, enjoy the money you bought with blood and disappear completely. I’ll make sure no one asks any questions.”

There is a reason he has not told anyone about this, not even Natasha who has offered to take the weight of this decision from him completely, because absolutely everyone would have declared him crazy. Maybe he is, but surely that is better than being a murderer, even by proxy.

For the first time since Tony entered his office, there is unease visible on Obadiah’s face, like he cannot comprehend Tony’s motivation behind this. “Why would you offer me such a deal?”

Tony shrugs. He is not so sure about that himself. Other than the practicalities of not wanting to drive his father’s company into ruin, he can admit to being perhaps too cowardly. If they fight this out it will cost all of them so much, and Tony is tired of losing. It might not be the morally right thing to do, but he does not want to throw himself willingly into another abyss.

“You’re my godfather,” he says, not sure how to put his feelings into words. Every moment in here makes the churning of feelings in his stomach worse. “No matter your reasons, you’ve been there for Dad and me. Maybe all your claims of friendship were false, but they were real to me. It fucking hurts, you know,” Tony smiles bitterly, unable to believe his own lenience, “but I’d like to refrain from ruining you if at all possible.”

At that, Obadiah looks at him with the same derision Howard always holds for him. “You have always been weak,” he sneers, and Tony cannot help but think that he would rather be that than a backstabbing wreck of a man like both of his father figures.

“If you mean by that that I’m not ashamed of having a heart,” Tony answers softly, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders, “then yes, I’m weak. And I’m glad for it.” He does not take being different as a flaw anymore, not now when his godfather throws it back at him to hurt.

“What makes you think I’ll honour this deal?” Obadiah spats, finally angry, finally losing his composure, at the daring of his pathetic excuse of a godson. It is not quite a victory but, just for a moment, it tastes sweet nonetheless.

“Dragging your dirty little secret to the surface will hurt all of us,” Tony explains, keeping his voice and face calm, “but in the end it’s you who’s going down.” Any way they choose, they are all losing.

“You don’t have the stomach for it.” Obadiah appears smaller now, somehow, even though he has always seemed to tower over Tony. It could be amusing, peeling back the masks of others, but Tony is perpetually aware of what lies beneath his, so he is simply exhausted.

“Maybe,” he admits. He has decided to give Obadiah a chance. Everything else will be out of his hands. “But I know people who do, and you haven’t angered just me with that article.” He leans forward with detached intensity. “In case you didn’t notice, _that_ was a threat. If something happens to me or we hear a single peep from you again, you’re done.”

It is so easy to say _we_ , although he doubts Clint would answer his call at all anymore after his rushed escape, and Natasha would likely resort to simply dropping bodies as a giant smoke sign of them having a common interest but nothing beyond that.

“All your little smuggler friends will be taken down, but I’m offering you an out as a courtesy for having belonged to our family. This is your only chance, and I suggest you take it.”

Despite putting up a brave front, Tony feels like the air around him has become too thick to breathe. He needs to leave or his delicately built construct of threats and favours will crumble before he has even been able to test its stability.

He somehow manages to get to his feet with trained grace, standing tall and steady even while he feels like he is falling. “Goodbye, Obie.”

The entire way to the door, Tony expects Obadiah to jump up and shout, to throw something at him, maybe even sink a bullet in his back, but the tense silence remains intact. Closing the door behind him feels final in a way that nothing ever has before.

Well, Tony thinks as he does his best to swallow down the hysteria rising up his throat, Obadiah is dealt with for now. Next up is Howard.

 

* * *

 

While Bucky sleeps, Steve divides his time between sitting at his best friend’s bedside, waiting for the inevitable nightmares to hit, and wandering their apartment in restless exhaustion.

He avoids his own room, knowing he will not be able to bear the sight of Tony’s things still clattered amongst his own. He should pack it all up and send it to New York, or at least to Clint and Natasha, who must be better informed than him about where Tony disappeared to. _Disappeared_ , as if Steve has not had his hand in this.

It has become so quiet around here, with Bucky shut away in his own world, and Steve trying to get him back to the present, and, most of all, with Tony gone. There is not much laughter to be found, no banter, not any kind of conversation really other than calm reassurances of safety. Tony seems to have taken all life with him, leaving behind the mere broken things Steve has become so good at pretending they are not.

It has been several long days since that article was published and Steve lost his head, since he broke something good, thanks to his single-tracked mind. He is not quite at the point where he can tell how things went wrong this quickly, but at least he _knows_ that he was wrong.

Looking over at Bucky’s sleeping form – neither of them can be alone for too long after falling into another abyss, because sharing their space has always had that soothing feeling of belonging – Steve makes sure that his friend is fast asleep for now. Bucky is curled up around himself, his prosthetic held closely to his chest, and he does not look peaceful at all. Sleep, at this point, is not a refuge but simply a state they fall into when exhaustion finally takes its toll.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose as if that has ever helped against the pounding headache he feels himself developing, Steve walks quietly out of the room, standing somewhat lost in the hallway, unsure what to do although there is only one other person he cannot stop thinking about now that things have calmed down a bit.

Steve has promised Tony he would take care of him, has promised a lot of other things he has not kept. He owes him much more than an apology, but that is the only way he can begin, a first step until he hopefully regains his footing.

What had he been thinking, blaming Tony like that? His panicked mind had a thousand reasons, but all of them are quickly dissolving into nothing now that he is waking from his frenzied stupor, taking in the shambles of his life.

Tony had never paid much mind to the press, had taken their lies and slander with practiced stoicism or even long-suffering amusement. If he had wanted Steve out of his life, he would have simply left. Steve would not have had the slightest chance to get close to him again if Tony had not let him.

Even if Tony had wanted to hurt him – despite that being a ridiculous thought, fabricated out of thin air – there would have been a hundred better ways, easier and more personal ways.

What happened is purely Steve’s fault. He overreacted, exploded in Tony’s face, pushed him away before running off. He let himself get lost in the intricately built maze of horrors waiting inside his brain, let it take control of him until everything started to run through his hands and he did nothing to stop it.

Thinking back on how Tony had looked at him, lost and betrayed and pleading, his eyes turning the same dead shade they had when coming out of an argument with his father, Steve feels like curling up and never face the world again. How could he do something like this to a person he claimed to love?

He needs to make things right somehow, even while he does not allow himself to think about how he is going to accomplish that. Picking up his phone on his way to the kitchen, Steve finds Tony’s number easily. Actually pressing ‘call’ is much harder than that.

Sitting down at the kitchen counter, the dial tone fills his ear, causing him to get more nervous with each second that passes. What if Tony does not want to see or hear from him ever again? He would understand, but it would still break his heart. What he has done was wrong and there is no excuse for that, but if nothing else, he wants to apologize. He said things that are cruel and false, and he cannot let that to be the last things they ever told each other.

Steve is almost ready to give up – and almost glad for it too – when the call suddenly connects. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out before Tony can say anything, his eyes closed and short of breath as if he has run all the way to New York instead of sitting motionless in his lonely home.

“My,” the scathing, ugly sound hits him like a bullet but Steve does not angle away from it, “I hope you have a better speech prepared, because that’s just ridiculous.”

It is not Tony’s voice, though, but Clint’s, which gives Steve pause, first in confusion then embarrassment. Glancing at the screen of his phone, Steve verifies that he has called the right number. That can only mean that Tony is likely still in town and has not left him yet, he is with Clint and Natasha, almost close enough to reach. His relief is dampened by the fact that he still does not know what to do, how to keep going. If Clint is answering, that only proves that Tony does not want to talk with him, even if he has not yet returned to his own life, washing his hands of Steve and his folly.

“Stop thinking yourself into another panic,” Clint cuts through Steve’s churning thoughts, not quite sounding kind. “I can hear your mind rattling from here and look where that got us last time.”

Clint is angry with him. Strangely enough, that is a relief, because they are often following each other without any clear idea where they are going to end up, but if Clint has come to his senses before Steve has, there is hope that he has already done some damage control. Distantly, he registers it is unkindly to think like that but panic _is_ still lingering at the corners of his mind, ready to take over at a single wrong step.

“Is Tony with you?” Steve asks, because that is what matters most for now.

“No,” Clint answers promptly, doing nothing to soften the blow.

Steve frowns at the countertop in front of him. If Tony is not with them anymore, then what is Clint doing with his phone? Was Tony so eager to get away that he left it behind? “But –”

“Nat did her magic and made sure that your call would be directed to my phone if you tried to reach him,” Clint explains, causing several more questions to rise in Steve’s mind even while he is not yet over the fact that Tony apparently is truly _gone_.

“What? But why?” he stammers, scolding himself for the stupidity of it.

“Because you hurt Tony,” Clint says slowly, letting each word fall like stones into a well, making them echo inside Steve endlessly. “And your approach to solve a problem is to either hit it or to get all righteous about it. He can do without both at the moment.”

Steve wants to protest, already falling into his old habit of justifying things even though, only a minute ago, he was fully aware that what he has done is wrong and that he cannot keep doing it.

“I have to explain,” he finally settles on saying, wincing when Clint huffs in rapidly fading patience.

“No, you have to apologize once you’ve both calmed down and thought about where you want to go with this,” Clint snaps, thoroughly fed up with their antics. “Believe me, you’re not ready to say any of that, just like Tony is not ready to hear it.”

At least, Steve thinks, Clint has sounded like there is somewhere to go, has not said this like things are already over. Still, he is angry at the interference. They are supposed to stick together, not to go behind each other’s backs.

“You can’t just invade our privacy like that. That’s –”

“And still you’re proving us right with every word that’s leaving your mouth,” Clint interrupts him lazily, although there is a sharpness to his voice he does not even try to hide. “Steve, listen to yourself. You’re still angry, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re angry at him or yourself. You’re ready to explode at the smallest offence.”

Clint is right, but Steve has been running on anger for so long, he barely knows how to do without. It has, unconsciously, been the one source of energy he trusted above all others. He might be preaching against violence but fighting is truly everything he has ever known, be it against sickness or bullies or enemy soldiers or time itself.

“What if Tony wanted to reach me?” he asks, slightly petulant but past the point where he would care.

“Oh, he won’t,” Clint says shortly. It could be Steve’s imagination but his friend sounds slightly smug about that. “But he could, for that matter.”

Tony could naturally overcome whatever Natasha had done to their phones in a matter of seconds, he is a tech genius after all, but the way Clint says that raises the impression that they have blocked their connection only this way, making sure that Steve cannot bother Tony before they are ready. What does that say about their trust in Steve?

“I need to make this right,” Steve insists stubbornly. He has never been able to let anything go, much less something this personal, this painful, something he needs to fix as much as he needs air to breathe.

Clint shoots him down again, however. “Not like this. Tony doesn’t deserve to deal with anyone’s anger right now.” Softer, he adds, “He’s got a lot on his plate.”

Irritated, Steve begins to argue, “We have –” but falls silent willingly when Clint interrupts him.

“No, you don’t,” Clint all but yells, voice thrumming with barely buried emotion. “You weren’t left by your boyfriend for a very ludicrous reason in a hurtful way. You didn’t have your supposed friends turn their back on you. You didn’t find out your godfather has been betraying you for years.” Here he takes a deep breath, although it does not calm him down in the slightest. “No, Steve, you’re just dealing with the same old shit we’ve been carrying around since coming home. Yes, it’s bad,” he says, his tone scathing, “yes, it still hurts. But, dammit, there’s no reason for you to demolish everything in your path when the panic hits. Tony was never a danger to any of us.”

That puts a halt to Steve’s righteous indignation, almost knocks the breath out of him, because Clint sounds so furious. And Tony – objectively he knows all of that, but getting it all dumped on him like that makes him realize just how much has been loaded on Tony without warning, how demanding all that sudden pain must be, and Steve had simply added his own, never once stopping to think.

He can understand Clint’s shortness with him, is disgusted with himself, really, but he still has to clarify something.

“Why are _you_ so angry with me?” he asks, waiting for an answer he already knows, deep down.

“Because I hurt Tony too,” Clint offers tonelessly. Steve can imagine him picking at the cuts in his fingers that come from shooting too many arrows in a row. Even the calloused skin of Clint’s hands still breaks when he falls into the kind of mood he tries to soothe with hitting target after target after target. “And I did that because I followed your lead without using my own head. You always lose all common sense when it comes to Bucky. It was the same when he was missing.”

For years Steve has expected them to blame him for that, for his single-minded race against death, pulling them along to the point where they could not have turned around even if they had wanted to. They stood at his side, and there was never any doubt that their loyalty is to each other, but Steve is not blind to the questions in their eyes, asking whether he would have gone so far for any of them too. Up until now, they have never come to blows over that, but he wonders whether his time is up.

“We needed to save him,” Steve says, toneless but hard. There had never been any other decision to make.

“Yes, and I’m glad we did,” Clint answers quickly, reassuringly, “but you drove us to and over our limits and just expected us to keep following you.”

Steve wonders why this conversation has to come up now, when he already feels fragile without it. “You did.” It ends up sounding more like a question.

“Yes,” Clint says and pauses, which is all the warning Steve gets before he adds, “I’m just not sure I would do it again.”

Steve straightens abruptly, almost letting the phone fall when his hands go reflexively slack. “What are you saying?”

In response, Clint sighs, banning the vulnerability out of his tone. The moment for complete, painful honesty passes as quickly as it has come, although it will remain burned into Steve’s brain, so he will not be able to forget about it. It will be one more thing to haunt him.

“You need to set your priorities straight,” Clint orders sternly, back to sounding like himself, even if there is still a distance between them that has not been there before. “If that is Bucky, all right, no problem. Just be straightforward with that. You can’t promise a guy the world and then take it all away on a whim.”

For someone so intent on righting any wrong he encounters, it is sometimes hard to keep track of all the promises he made, but some will always stand out. Steve promised Bucky that he would be safe, and Tony that their love is real.

“I didn’t –”

“Steve, I’m not going to argue about that with you,” Clint cuts in tiredly. “Take your time. More importantly, give Tony time to deal with all the shit that’s happening in his life right now.” There is a pause in which Steve thinks Clint has hung up on him, but then he speaks up again. “Call if you need us. We’re still family. Things don’t always have to go smooth, but sometimes we have to stop being selfish.”

“Clint,” Steve says and trails off, not sure whether he wants to keep questioning his friend or, maybe, give in for once and simply thank him.

Clint takes that decision from him, because he says, “Good night,” and ends the call, leaving Steve alone with a silent apartment, his best friend passed out due to exhaustion, and a lot of uncomfortable things to think about. It is good he had not planned on sleeping anyway, for while his bones feel heavier than before, his mind is wide awake.

 _Tomorrow will be brighter_ , or so his mother had always told him. He has quite a few hours of darkness left to try to prove her right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Tell me what you think, shout, rant, I'm open for everything :-)  
> Have a good weekend!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments!  
> And kudos to [Briz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briz/pseuds/Briz) for giving me the idea for bringing Stark Resilient into this.  
> Enjoy!

The mansion feels as unwelcoming as it has his whole life, but Tony’s steps do not slow as he enters. Neither does he take a detour to the kitchen to meet with Jarvis. There are matters he needs to address first.

The way to Howard’s office is burnt into his brain so that he could walk it with his eyes closed. He has done so before, running blindly after arguments, tears burning that he refused to let fall. He does not intend to run now.

The setting is eerily similar to his meeting with Obadiah two days before, they are both powerful men expecting him to bow before them. It is good that he has a lifetime of experience in disappointing their expectations. His godfather had already fulfilled his end of their deal, disappearing so quickly and completely that it is obvious he had his escape plans ready for a while. Howard had raged, of course, demanding explanations and throwing things, but had ultimately been forced to accept things. One of the reasons Tony has waited to come here was to give Howard time to calm down, but not enough to regain his usual stubborn strength. Tony needed him pliable but not too vulnerable to insist on getting his will no matter what arguments he is met with.

Tony knocks on the imposing door – which is really just wood but that had seemed insurmountable when he was a child and still vying for his father’s approval – but does not wait for an answer before going in.

“Boy,” Howard greets him, something self-satisfied about his demeanour that feels so familiar that Tony is not even bitter about it. “You’re home.”

“That depends.” Tony has a speech prepared, but just like his confrontation with Stane, he is sure nothing will go to plan. He will be happy if it at least turns out in his favour again, although he is not sure why he should get lucky twice.

He walks up to the desk and leans against the chair, in a convincing facsimile of a relaxed posture.

“Depends on what?” Howard barks, his face pulling into the kind of ugly grimace he always wears when someone opposes him. “You’re lucky I’m letting you back in at all after you did your disappearing act.”

_Let back in_ means, in this case, that Tony’s desk and mail account had been overflowing with projects and deadlines, as if it has never been in question that Tony would return. He has not yet touched any of that and mostly does not plan to.

“And yet you wanted me back so badly you ruined my life, _again_ ,” Tony says sweetly, steel underlying the words that he does not bother to hide.

Howard, who has never liked insubordination, especially not from his own son, narrows his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” he sneers, still not seeing anything wrong with what he has done. “Things would have never worked out with such a green boy.”

_Green_. Tony almost laughs. The only colour he thinks of anymore in association with Steve is red, and not because of the love he undeniably still feels, fool that he is. More a red like rage, like loss, and now like blood too. Everything looks like blood, now that his eyes have been opened to Obadiah’s machinations.

“Doesn’t matter anymore, right?” he says rather more flippant than he feels, but he is well aware he cannot offer up any weakness for Howard to exploit.

“Hopefully. I need your head in the game.” Howard sounds so dismissive that Tony wonders briefly whether he deals just as uncaringly with his own feelings. That would explain much, at least. “With Obadiah quitting so suddenly, we need to take care with our next steps.”

Tony is still not convinced that Obadiah will remain as quiet as he has for now. He half expected him to try his luck at fighting his way out, but at the very least he could have damaged Tony’s relationship with his father permanently as a parting gift. Obadiah has been Tony’s confidante for years, so it would not be hard to turn Howard even more against him.

Tony cannot talk about Obadiah, though, cannot keep ripping that wound open while he is trying to think about the future. “About that,” he says, pouring all his strength into sounding collected, “I won’t be building any more weapons.”

As obvious a decision it is, Tony has not arrived there easily. He has been fighting with his father for years to expand the minor divisions of Stark Industries, to stop concentrating only on weapons, but he has been shut down each time. Tony is so full of ideas he doubts he will ever run out of them. For years, he has been distancing himself from the idea of keeping up the weapons production after he takes over the company. Right now, however, with Howard still in charge, this will only end in another battle. Tony is tired of those, even though this is one he has to fight. Has to win, in fact.

He knows that Stane’s dealing does not mean that his hands are covered in blood, but it feels like it nonetheless, and he cannot ignore that any longer. Each weapon he had a part in making has killed people, both the ones sold legally and not. This has to stop now.

It takes several moments for the words to register with Howard, and Tony can see smugness turn into disbelief and finally into anger.

“What are you saying?” he growls. Tony might be amused by this if he had not spent countless hours being yelled at in this very room. The atmosphere is still the same and, at his roots, Tony is still the same boy too.

“I’m not going to develop, improve or build even one more weapon. That’s non-negotiable,” Tony says, keeping his back straight, although he cannot help but cross his arms in front of him. “You can either take what else I have to offer or we’ll go our separate ways from now on.”

Despite his constant grasping for freedom, Tony knows that step will be a hard one to take if it comes to it. He has never liked his life here very much, but leaving would mean he has to turn his back on so many good things too.

Howard leans forward, the vein at his temple standing out dangerously. “Have you gone insane?”

Possibly, likely. Although, if what he had before was sanity, he is glad it is gone.

“On the contrary. I feel like I’ve finally regained my senses. I’ve let you and Stane dissuade me for years from what I really want to do.” If Howard notices Tony’s use of his godfather’s last name and thinks it strange, he does not give any indication of that. Perhaps he is simply too busy with staring at Tony, utterly aghast. “I have ideas, and you know how I work, you know they’ll be good, profitable.”

“Stark Industries makes weapons,” Howard all but shouts, spittle flying.

Barely keeping from rolling his eyes – even in his new state of bravado, Tony knows better than to provoke his father like that – Tony points out, “Because you say so. I’m not telling you to shut down the weapons division completely, even though I have half a mind to do so, but to invest more resources into other departments.” He shrugs, outwardly unperturbed. “Let me work without resources for now if you must, I’m sure I can pull this off.”

He is not, in any way, certain about that. He can build things, can even look at the world around him and find something that people actually need instead of only following his dreams. Building alone does not fix anything, however. At the very least, he needs someone to do his marketing and PR, a legal team, someone to maybe puzzle out his crazed notes and turn that into something legible. For years, he has done nothing more than to send blueprints to R&D, to improve existing projects, and to tinker away in his workshop. That has always worked out for him, because all the rest was taken care of. He has no idea of how to lead a company or even a small division, does not know about logistics and laws.

Nonetheless, he needs to appear sure about what he is doing. He will have Pepper to back him up, or so he hopes, when it actually comes to executing his mad plans.

Leaning back in his chair, Howard musters him sharply, either to show his derision or actually looking right through Tony’s bluster. “Where is this nonsense coming from?”

How can Tony answer that without hinting at everything that has happened? He has been unhappy with building weapons for years and Howard has simply dismissed his arguments. Things have changed, but Tony cannot let on how much.

“It’s time I thought about leaving the world a better place than I found it,” he finally says, albeit knowing that Howard will be wholly unimpressed by this.

True enough, his father sneers in disgust. “I don’t have time for philosophical bullshit.” Because Howard has never been able to stand a situation he cannot understand, he reacts by lashing out, “You’ve hung around that artist layabout for too long.”

Tony takes a deep breath. It makes no sense to get upset about Steve being insulted. They are nothing to each other anymore. Steve must have called him worse, and Howard’s opinion ultimately does not matter. He just cannot help but wish he were still in the kind of position with Steve that would give him the right to defend him.

“I disliked weapons before I met Steve.” That, at least, is the truth, if for the wrong reason. As soon as he had outgrown the childish glee at turning making explosions into a profession, he has grown bored with the matter. Weapons will always be something someone else has built before, no matter how much better and deadlier he could make them. He has always been interested in more exciting things.

“And yet you never defied me when I told you that’s the way to make money.”

Howard has built his fortune. He had visions once and knew how to take opportunities. He helped fight a war. At some point, he has grown afraid of the future, though, of not being able to guide it as he has before. Instead of recognizing that and accepting input from others, he is clinging to what he knows. Tony realizes he has never been more of a threat to his father than now.

“And this is where I disagree,” he says, uncertain how to convey he does not want to harm Stark Industries but for it to grow. “For one, I don’t care about the money. We’ll never starve.” He ignores Howard’s scoff, not caring whether he sounds naïve. “And this world is developing in ways where you won’t stay on top by building better guns.”

“There will always be wars to be fought.” Howard is right. Listening to the news, it feels like they are moving straight towards a third world war, but there is also so much good happening. It is almost impossible to keep up with scientific advances made every day, life is improving at a dizzying rate.

Pouring all his determination, his hope, into the words, Tony says, “But not with things that I’ve built.” He leans slightly back, takes a deep breath. “Listen, Dad, I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”

He meant it when he said this is not a negotiation, but he wants nothing more than for his father to understand, to maybe see his side for once.

“And what will you do if I say no?” Howard asks coldly, watching him like he expects Tony to fold immediately, as if he still has that kind of sway over him.

“I’m leaving, simple as that.”

No matter how one looks at it, there is nothing simple about this. For all his life, Tony had been told to work hard on becoming a better Stark. He tried but never managed, and now he is ready to give it up, to carry his disappointment with him wherever he goes next.

Howard’s expression remains unmoved, like he is neither surprised nor particularly upset about his son threatening to leave over a decision he should be allowed to make for himself.

“You’re not getting any money from me,” he spats out as though he truly thinks that is what Tony is concerned about.

“Do you really think I won’t find work with a brain like mine?” Tony asks, incredulity and bitterness warring inside him. “I know you love to tell me how useless I am, but I’m sure I will find someone who disagrees. And I won’t need a lot of money in the beginning if I’m doing most of the work myself.”

It is true that Tony is accustomed to having more than enough money available, and he will be severely restricted in what he can still build if his access to resources is cut down, but he is sure he will manage. This is the least of his worries.

“Your work for what?”

It is immensely satisfying to render Howard to answer in short, helpless sentences instead of drowning Tony out with endless tirades. This, finally, also piques his interest. Not in any way positive, but that is still better than apathy.

“Stark Resilient.” Tony smiles slightly. The name itself already tastes like freedom. “I’ve been toying with that idea for a long time, but you’ve never given me enough incentive to actually pull through.” He unfolds his arms, shrugs openly. “You don’t have to worry, though, we won’t be competitors. The no weapons rule will stand, even more so if it’s my own company.”

It is to be expected that Howard does not take that well. His head turns an ugly shade of red, and he slams his hands onto the desk in front of him, leans forward as if to stand and throw himself at Tony. His fury, though, seems to have rendered his legs too heavy for he remains in his seat, helplessly seething.

“You ungrateful little –”

“Let me stop you right there,” Tony interjects smoothly, careful to bat down the hint of nervousness curling inside his chest. He has spent years being afraid of his father’s temper, and remnants of that will forever remain. He is a grown man now, though, and likes to think he has faced down worse than Howard’s unobtainable demands for who a son of his should be. “I don’t know why you keep insisting that I’m somehow stupid. Maybe you feel threatened, maybe you’re jealous. I don’t care. Fact is, you’re constantly pushing me away even while you insist I keep working for you.” Smiling grimly, Tony shrugs. This is it, then, the point of no return. “I’m asking you to make a decision now, it’s rather simple. Give me some freedom with what I do with my brain and keep reaping the benefits, or let me go.”

Silence falls abruptly when Tony finishes his little speech. This might be the most honest conversation he has ever had with his father, and it could just as well turn out to be the last. If they stop working together, he cannot imagine that either of them wants to deal much with the other. Why should they put themselves through that senseless torment?

“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Howard finally says. He still sounds like he would rather fight about this, but there is also something pensive in his tone. “Stark Industries is an established name. People don’t exactly love you, and who’d trust some boy to actually deliver quality products.”

Tony is well aware of his reputation, but he can work on that. The press might be fickle and invasive, but it is possible to play them. He has created scandals out of nothing for years, so he is sure that, with some effort, he can turn his image around.

“I am a hundred percent sure,” he lies, easily feigning confidence. No matter how this ends, he will get through it with his head held high. “Also, none of that will be your problem, right? I promise I won’t come running back to you if I fail.”

He is not sure whether Howard would even take him. Considering the expression on his face, he would sooner throw Tony out himself right away, and later smash whatever pieces are left of him himself.

“You had better not,” Howard growls, causing Tony’s hope to fall.

“So you’ve decided then?”

For a long moment, Tony cannot move. He is not sure which answer he dreads more, because even with how little he considers Howard actual family, despite him being his father, he does not want to draw a line between them that they likely will not ever manage to cross again.

“No,” Howard finally says slowly, “give me until the end of the month. I’ll have your answer then.” The words take a moment to register, but then Tony feels like he can breathe again. He would leave, without hesitation, but that does not mean he would not regret it on some level.

With that, Howard turns his eyes pointedly to the paperwork on his desk. It is as clear a dismissal as Tony has ever seen, but he is happy to leave it at that for now. He pushes himself away from the chair, glad that his legs carry him without complaint, even though he feels slightly shaky on his feet, and turns towards the door.

Once outside, he lets his shoulders drop and relaxes his face. He is not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry, thinks he might not know that for a long time to come. There is no going back now, though, and he would not want to anyway. This has been a long time coming. Once the nervousness fades, he is sure he will be excited.

Without a second thought, he walks towards the kitchen. Now that this unpleasant matter is dealt with, all he wants is Jarvis’ comforting presence and coffee. Everything can be made brighter by that.

 

* * *

 

It takes Bucky days to feel human again, days full of flashbacks, drowning in panic, expecting to look down at himself and see nothing but a bloody stump instead of his left arm. He cannot quite say why this episode hit him this hard, but he had slowly begun to build a life away from all this and suddenly all his old wounds were crowding in on that. Panic does not follow any rules. The smallest things are blown out of proportion, without any way for him to prepare for it. How can he hope to build defences against incidents like this, against the barrage of questions his co-workers sent at him, and pictures of his own mangled body in the newspaper?

Steve does not move from his side the entire time until Bucky feels he can breathe normally again, without gasping for air and inhaling dirt instead. It has Bucky feeling grateful, but Steve’s worry is suffocating in its own way, because he wants him to become whole again, and that is just not going to happen.

They stay holed up in their flat for almost a week, doing their best to ignore the outside world as they try to rebuild their equilibrium. If Bucky cannot stand the fickle vastness of life beyond their door, however, being cooped up has him suspecting that the walls are closing in around him the longer he stares at them. He still has not gotten used to the fact that everything, no matter where he goes or what he touches, can hurt him. That does not stop him from forbidding Steve to coddle him any longer because he needs to get out, and a boundlessly anxious best friend at his side will not help with that at all.

While he reclaims life, Steve appears to keep burying himself deeper in the misery inside his head. With increasing frequency, he begs Bucky to try to reach Tony, to find out how he is doing. Bucky has his opinions about that, namely that it will not do any good for him to play middleman when Clint, who is much better at this sort of thing, told Steve to lay low for a while and concentrate on getting better himself. Sooner or later, though, he has always caved to Steve’s mad plans.

Since their friends redirected Steve’s calls to go to Clint’s phone, Bucky does not bother with trying his own. They will have anticipated Steve using his phone and made sure to prevent him from being successful that way. Which leaves Bucky with powering up his battered laptop to choose a less conventional way. Against his better judgement, Bucky initiates a video call before leaning back to wait.

It takes an eternity for anything to happen, in which Bucky has to clench his hands to not reach out and turn off his computer again. He is not at all sure that this is a good idea, and he is not all too good at swallowing his own shame. Still, were this only about him, it would be easier to sit through this, to say his piece and try to make up. Despite his initial anger, fuelled by Steve’s ranting, he does not hold what has happened against Tony. None of this is his fault, since he is not responsible for his father’s machinations.

While Bucky is triggered by reminders of his captivity, Steve’s triggers all revolve around his friends getting hurt, Bucky most of all, which means he is essentially the reason the two men split. He does not know how to make that right, how to meet Tony, or how to make Steve take the necessary step to get them talking again.

Caught in his musings, Bucky barely notices when the call connects, but then there is Tony looking right back at him, and for several long seconds nothing happens while they take each other in.

The genius does not look much like himself, but is exhausted and dark-eyed in a way that is eerily familiar, if only because that is how Bucky still feels deep inside. He is wearing an over-sized sweater that does not look like it belongs to him. Over the past weeks, Bucky has gotten used to seeing Tony in other people’s clothes, mostly Steve’s but sometimes his too. For a billionaire he travelled surprisingly light, and had not cared to get much more than the necessities while living with them. Warm clothes obviously did not count as that, as long as he had theirs to borrow. Only now, it has fallen to someone else to take care of him. Although, Bucky suspects it is a method of seeking comfort by burying himself in other people’s – _trusted_ people’s – clothes.

Tony is pale and his eyes are growing wider as he searches what little is seen of Bucky’s room on the screen for signs of Steve. It is painful to see his shoulders fall in both relief and sadness when he concludes that Bucky is alone.

“Tony,” Bucky greets cautiously, still having no idea how to go about this.

The last time he had seen Tony, Steve had manoeuvred Bucky past Tony lying unnaturally still on Clint and Natasha’s couch, exhaustion pulling him into the kind of sleep that keeps the waking world firmly away from him.

Natasha had sent them unceremoniously into her bedroom after Tony ran out of their apartment, and all but locked them in, so they ‘would not mess up even more while she took care of things.’ Bucky had only registered that with a fragment of his mind, otherwise occupied by trying to keep breathing without blackening out again.

She only let them out when Tony was sound asleep in their living room, guiding them to the door without a word but wearing a pinched expression. For a short moment, it seemed like Steve was going to protest, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the genius, but they never found out whether he was going to say another unforgivable thing or actually inquire about Tony’s well-being, because his first priority was still Bucky and he concentrated on getting the two of them home.

Even now, Bucky is not sure he can forgive Steve entirely for just leaving Tony behind, even if it has been for his sake. Especially because Steve’s overwhelming worry is just more proof that Bucky is still fragile, still broken.

Tony glances at the keyboard in front of him, clearly struggling with himself whether or not to cut off the call himself, making Bucky question why he accepted it in the first place. It does not quite infuse him with hope, though, because Tony does not look like this will do him much good. Then the genius visibly steels himself, though, and stares straight back at Bucky.

“How are you?” he asks like a man about to be hanged. A smile is plastered onto his face, likely courtesy of the manners painstakingly taught to him, but that is the only fake thing about him. The tiredness, the grief, even the concern, all of that is genuine.

“Better.” Bucky shrugs uncomfortably and falls silent.

It is not a lie. The initial fall may be painful, but it is the time afterwards that is truly hard. It costs effort to build himself up again. He has finally thrown Steve out of his room at night, although he has no illusion that he spends it right in front of the door, but he has not yet slept with the lights out.

While he is eternally glad to have made it through the first years after the war more or less intact, getting used to normalcy again has its own hardships. The panic hits so much harder when he is not expecting it.

“Good,” Tony says in a tone that could mean everything and nothing at all.

They stare at each other wordlessly. Despite being usually so alive and chatty, this silence suits Tony in an entirely macabre way. In this moment, the boundless, charismatic energy he normally projects seems like an intricately built thing, something he poured years of work into.

“What about you?” Bucky asks, feverishly searching for something to keep their conversation from dying. All his words seem to have vanished, though, the moment Tony accepted his call. The mission was to find out how Tony is doing, to scout whether he would be amenable to talking to Steve again, but actually seeing him leaves Bucky helpless.

Tony seems to almost take offence to the question. He shifts his posture very subtly so he sits straighter, slightly sticking out his chin.

“I had a falling out with my father, although we’re having a delicately balanced truce for the rest of the month. But at least my lying arsehole of a godfather decided to do us a favour and resign without making trouble for anyone.” The words sound like a challenge, even while Tony’s voice is curiously flat, causing Bucky to flinch.

As emotionally charged as the past days have been, he can hardly handle the thought of the turmoil Tony must be going through, no matter the brave façade. While it is not surprising to be cut out suddenly, the growing distance between them has Bucky’s stomach clenching painfully.

“It was in the news,” he answers hesitantly.

They had expected something a little bit more permanent than Stane simply resigning his job, because Natasha is ruthless when it comes to protecting her family, which might mean that Tony has declined her help and decided to deal with this on his own. He is not sure what to think of that, although he is aware that there is no right answer to this.

Had Obadiah Stane died, it would not have touched them much, might have been better in the long run, but it would have hurt Tony even more. He has his doubts that this will be all they are going to hear about this, because few bad guys ever honour silent agreements, especially when they have gotten away with their crimes for such a long time.

Bucky does not tell Tony any of that, although it seems he does not have to.

“I guess you’re rather disappointed about that,” Tony says, eyes dark but with a sharp smile on his lips that looks dangerous more than amused, “your whole group seems to prefer drastic measures above all else.”

Bucky does not know how to reach out, or whether he even has the right to anymore, but he can barely stand the way Tony looks, braving against a storm he expects to weather all on his own.

“Are you all right?” he asks, managing to startle Tony enough that his expression falls for a moment, shattering into bone-deep grief and remote anger.

“Did you seriously just ask me that?” Tony looks like he is not sure whether Bucky is mocking him, but ultimately does not have the energy to lash out.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says quickly, wondering how he can salvage this. “Are you back in New York?”

He obviously chose the wrong thing to say, because the line of Tony’s shoulders tightens as he leans away from the screen.

“Of course. I took the first plane out,” he says stiffly, making it sound like he did them a favour. “You can tell Steve he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally running into me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky almost groans in frustration. He closes his eyes for a short moment, takes a deep breath, then looks back at Tony imploringly. “Don’t just disappear like that. I’ll talk to Steve. He’s –”

“Don’t,” Tony cuts him off firmly. There is no indication that he does not mean what he is saying. “You’ve already talked him into something that wouldn’t work out once. Why do you think it would be any different now?”

The thing is that Tony is not wrong. In the little time they have known each other, Steve and Tony have managed to fall too hard for each other too quickly, thinking in terms of love before establishing trust, which made it so easy for them to inflict wounds without ever knowing the full extent of what they were doing. Maybe what they were feeling was true, maybe they are made for each other, but it is also entirely possible that they are not.

“So you don’t want to?” Bucky asks, afraid of the answer. If Tony says no, he cannot push further. That just would not be fair.

“I want this to be over, one way or another,” Tony mutters tiredly. “I – I just want to be home without having to worry about when I’ll make the next mistake.”

This is what they have come to now, blundering morons walking steadily towards the kind of ugly end they should have expected from the very beginning. Although the way Tony emphasizes _home_ , it feels like he is not so sure himself where that is, as if he is looking for a feeling rather than a place. That, more than anything else, fills Bucky with new resolve to not let someone else fall apart because of him.

“Don’t give up on him. Steve is an idiot, yes, but mostly he is afraid to lose us. We’re the only family he’s got,” he chuckles bitterly, realizing that defending bad actions does not actually help in making things better. “I know that’s not an excuse, but this article made him remember what a fragile thing this life of ours is. We’re damaged goods.”

Bucky trails off, unsure how to put it. He can neither promise that Steve will see reason nor that this will not happen again. These things take time and that is what they are lacking most because they are always throwing themselves headfirst into everything.

“So you’re telling me he wants me to stay away for my own good?” Tony asks, finally scrounging up the energy to make his tone scathing. Some anger is good, or so Bucky thinks. The one thing they really cannot battle is apathy.

“I don’t think he wants you gone at all,” Bucky says, silently imploring Tony to believe him. “But he likes to jump to conclusions and somehow thought he had to choose between us and you.”

Sitting even straighter, Tony’s hands clench into fists, knuckles going white, until he hurries to tuck them away out of sight of the camera. He looks like he is going to end the call any second now, but then he simply huffs in frustration.

“You don’t need you to remind me that I lost that one.”

Somehow, Bucky had always been Steve’s choice. Back during schoolyard fights, getting them into constant trouble, and later in the Army. No matter what Bucky is weighed against, bruises or detention, lawsuits or death, Steve will _always_ choose him, which is as reassuring as it is scary.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Bucky tries again, because he truly thinks that Tony is not as ready to be done with them as he pretends to be.

“Let it go, Barnes.” Tony sighs, either not noticing or not caring when Bucky winces at the use of his last name. “I’m sorry for what’s happened and how it happened. But let’s not fool ourselves into believing it will ever be different.”

With that, he reaches out for his mouse, face already closed off, and Bucky wishes they were not several hundred miles away from each other so he could stop Tony from leaving like this.

“Tony –” Bucky calls out, surprised when Tony actually glances back at him.

“Goodbye, Bucky,” is all he says, though, “take care of yourself.”

The screen goes dark and Bucky is left alone in his room. As much as it feels like another betrayal to simply accept Tony’s decision to end their call on such a sour note, he is not sure how much damage it would do to keep forcing himself on Tony if he truly wants to leave them behind.

No matter what Tony just said, however, Bucky will have another stern conversation with Steve and not just to alleviate his friend’s worries, but to really drive the point home that there cannot be any more missteps. He could have another crisis meeting with Clint and Natasha too.

Perhaps they will manage to get another miracle happen to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Have a good weekend.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting. You are all amazing!  
> I also have to apologize for this next chapter, which is sure to be riddled with ridiculous mistakes. I haven't slept in a while so I've probably missed a lot. Don't hesitate to tell me about everything you spot.  
> Enjoy!

“Sir.” JARVIS turns down the music in Tony’s workshop without warning, abruptly enough that Tony flinches. Ever since coming back to New York, he is dealing even worse with silences, which is mostly due to the fact that he has no one to talk to. Pepper and Rhodey are still oblivious as to why he has returned to New York so suddenly and why he is avoiding everything involving Stark Industries, including his father, who resorts to glaring at him whenever they meet by chance.

He feels lonely enough that he sometimes wishes he had taken Clint and Natasha up on their offer for refuge. The chances that things would be easier that way are not very high, but at least he would have some distraction.

“Sir,” JARVIS tries again. This time, Tony looks up from his work and does not immediately drown in his thoughts again.

“What is it, J?” His voice is hoarse, since he has no reason to talk much, although his research into all of Obadiah’s smuggler friends and contacts elicit the desire to curse constantly.

“Might I direct your attention to the screen to your left.” JARVIS’ formality has Tony immediately alert. It is a simple thing that strangers would not notice, but to him it is as clear a sign of reluctance as any. Computer programs do not hesitate. JARVIS, however, does.

“I’m not in the mood for bad news,” Tony says, but swivels his chair to the left anyway. His list of regrets is getting longer every day, but he will not add treating J and his bots badly to it.

Only seconds later, he wishes he would have been more selfish and kept working. The screen shows news coverage from a crash site, a badly damaged car, nothing more than a burnt out shell, really, but Tony recognizes it nonetheless. How could he not when he has had his hands inside that beauty’s engines more times than he can count.

_Obadiah Stane, former business partner of Howard Stark, found dead in car crash._ he heading impacts like a punch to Tony’s stomach. Some reporter speaks about details, about possible explanations for the accident, but all he hears is _drunk driving_ and _dead before the paramedics could arrive_ before he stumbles away from the screen. JARVIS cuts off the sound without needing to be prompted.

Dead, he thinks, and does not understand. Even Obadiah’s sudden disappearing act was hard to accept, no matter that Tony had no particular desire to see his godfather again. Obadiah was a constant throughout all of Tony’s childhood. Seeing him as a traitor was easier than thinking of him as _gone_.

Blood rushes deafeningly inside Tony’s ears, his heartbeat and breathing challenge each other to a race until he cannot feel anything anymore but the distinct feeling that his body is too small for the storm brewing inside him. One more minute of this and he will burst, he will break open and all the bad thoughts he is holding will be spilling out, drowning him, tearing him down until there is nothing left.

He feels a piercing pain and clings to it, hoping that this means the helpless flailing around in darkness will stop. It is sharp and real, and he can feel it digging deeper when he moves, so he does and follows it, inch by breathless inch, to the surface.

When he comes to, he is lying on the ground, half the contents of his desk spilled around him. He sees blood and recoils, bumping hard into the edge of the table behind him. In a blindly defensive motion, Tony raises his hand in front of him, feebly trying to protect himself from the haunting sensation he still feels creeping up on him from all sides.

There are noises around him, and it is not until he has concentrated on his breathing that he realizes it is only one voice, speaking a litany of words meant to calm him.

Apparently, he is Tony Stark, and he is currently in the workshop of his penthouse in New York. The time is 5.27 pm and it is cloudy outside. Furthermore, JARVIS repeats that countless times, he is safe. There is no one else around, no one is trying to harm him. The lab is still on lockdown, outwards communication is disabled, there has been no breach in security. He is safe. _He is safe._

What JARVIS does not say is that Obadiah’s ghost has not come to enact his revenge, but it is heavily implied. Obadiah. The truth hits with bludgeoning force, but it does not drag him under again. His godfather is dead, just like that, and Tony cannot help but feel the tiniest bit relieved at that, because now he can truly bury this whole business and no one has to find out and he will not have to deal with waiting for the other shoe to drop because Obadiah is not the type to give up quietly.

Once the dizziness dies down and he feels like he can sit up without falling right down again, Tony straightens and stares uncomprehending at the mess around him. There is still that stinging pain, and when he looks at his arm he finds several shards of his shattered water glass embedded there.

His first, incoherent thought is that this is what he gets from trying to stay hydrated, and then he laughs. It is a wild thing, bitter to the point where he feels like throwing up. Leaning back against his desk, he just breathes until the feeling passes.

“Do you require assistance?” JARVIS asks with obvious worry in his tone. Silently, Tony congratulates himself for creating such a masterpiece. He managed to not only build himself a friend but someone who is concerned for him too. Two impossible feats in one.

“No, J, I’m all right,” Tony croaks, wondering why he even bothers. Neither of them is going to believe that. It is just not feasible to ask anyone else to deal with this, with him in this state. He can pull the glass out and bandage himself up. Then he can go upstairs and nurse a drink and think about the godfather he has lost twice now.

“Ms. Potts would –”

“No,” Tony says, maybe a tad too sharply. Of all people, he cannot let Pepper see him like this. She is always so disappointed when he falls into another low.

Instead of getting up, Tony remains sitting, staring at the screen that has mercifully gone dark, but he still sees the burning wreck, imagines the man he knew crumbling agonizingly into ashes.

It is all far too convenient. Obadiah has always been careful, not as boisterous as Howard or as self-contemptuous as Tony. He would not take this defeat lying down, Tony is sure, so that makes the picture painted here, of Obadiah driving drunk and taking himself out of the equation by accident, so very ludicrous. That would be more Howard’s area of expertise.

“JARVIS, call Romanov,” he says, sitting up straighter, his mind suddenly focused. There are precious few people knowing about what is going on with Obadiah and Stark Industries, and only one of them has the ability to make something like this happen.

JARVIS does not answer him, which is a clear sign of his disapproval, but soon the dial tone fills the air.

Natasha picks up quickly, as if she has expected his call. “Tony,” she greets, as calm as she always is, which only serves to make irritation spark inside him.

“What did you do?” he snaps, clenching his fist until the pain reminds him he is currently wounded. He stares at the blood that is still flowing sluggishly.

“Was I supposed to be doing something?” Natasha inquires gently, nothing incriminating in her voice, but she is also not surprised.

Tony snorts bitterly. “Are you really trying to tell me that you didn’t have your hands in the conveniently timed death of my godfather?” He wants to say Stane, wants to infuse the name with the disgust he still feels, but he does not manage to bring that much distance between them. Especially not now.

“I thought you had dealt with him.”

Tony wishes he could see her, could glare at her, maybe throw something, but her voice filters clearly through the loudspeakers of the lab and he still sits alone in another mess he created.

“And you were not at all happy with doing it my way.”

They had never talked about it, but Natasha’s position on the matter was clear, Clint had all but confirmed that, and Tony’s must have become so the very moment Obadiah was allowed to quit his job without any repercussions. He can imagine them sitting on the couch together, shaking their heads at the news. Obadiah had a heart-tearing speech prepared, and performed admirably before he vanished.

“Because,” Natasha draws the words out, “it was a stupid idea.”

Yes, Tony thinks, and no. It was a plan fuelled by his desire to make peace, to not drag all of them down with yet another fight, to avoid hurting his father even though that is all they have been doing to each other all his life. He just did not want even more blood on his hands.

“You’re not even denying it then?” Tony asks. “Did you kill him?”

It is an enormous question to ask, even if she has a history with killing. Natasha never hesitates, though, before she says, “No, Tony, I did not.”

He believes her. It might be crazy, because she must be trained to lie, but he does. Letting his head fall back against his desk, Tony closes his eyes. “But?” There is always a _but_ , he has learned that early on.

Natasha does take her time now, probably wondering how much she should involve him in her thoughts. When she makes her decision, he is not sure whether it is truly in his favour.

“As you said, it’s awfully convenient,” she points out. Quiet rustling is heard in the background, as if she is settling down comfortably. It has Tony thinking, if only for a moment, that his call might have prompted her into immediate action, ready to come to his aid like she promised. Or he hit his head while falling to the floor, causing him to think crazy thoughts. “I think that either some of his former business partners decided that it is too much of a risk to let him live, or that he did it himself.”

Tony is not ready to discuss Obadiah’s death, although he realizes that too late. He should have never called Natasha, because he is not sure he can deal with whatever answers she has for him.

“Suicide is not really his style,” he points out nonetheless. Flames burn in the periphery of his vision, spiking out of the wreck of a well-known car, so he tries to distract himself by shuffling the fallen mess of papers and tools together. All that does, however, is to unearth more shards of glass, reminding him that he should take care of his arm. He sits back, instead.

“He’ll be much safer if he faked his death than if he simply trusted you to keep your word.” Natasha sounds contemplative but still like she actually believes this is a feasible solution.

Normal people are not proficient at planning fake accidents, though, and he would have to disappear too. Obadiah has led a very public life, so what would he know about staying in the shadows, about becoming no one? No matter that this would be a move befitting the villain of his story, Tony cannot believe in it.

“They found his body,” he says quietly, not wanting to ever imagine his godfather’s unmoving form. He had always been full of life, laughing, loud in ways completely different from Howard. He had been encouraging instead of harsh, looking forward instead of at the bottom of a bottle. Death does not suit him.

“They found _a_ body,” Natasha corrects him matter-of-factly. “In a burned out car wreck.”

At that, Tony slumps, not sure what to believe or hope for anymore. He cannot say what would be worse, if Obie is dead, or if he is merely faking it, giving him the freedom to do whatever he wants, be that to live out his life in peace or plot his revenge.

“So what?” Tony asks helplessly, “What are we doing now?” He can all but hear her smile at his use of _we_ , when he has, up until now, insisted on doing this on his own.

“We won’t be doing anything,” Natasha says, taking him by surprise. “If he’s dead, the matter is done. And if he isn’t, well, it was your decision to let him go, maybe this will make it easier.”

Nothing will make this easier short of turning back the time to a point when Tony was still ignorant of this whole matter, when he was still in his happy bubble with Steve, when the worst enemy he had was still himself. Well, that last thing might still be true. No one else knows better how to take him apart.

“You don’t approve,” Tony says, because Natasha uses that tone that means she is distancing herself from something – maybe him.

“I’m not in the habit of letting my problems go free to come back at me later.” That is more or less what they have told him when he left them to go back to New York. This matter is finished, though, Obadiah is out of their grasp.

“I couldn’t let you murder him.” More than anything, he needs her to understand that. Perhaps that was the best solution from her point of view, but Tony is a civilian, he is a son and a godson, he cares too much.

“I know,” she says softly, not judging him for that. “Are you all right?”

Had it been anyone else asking him that, Tony would have lied without a second thought, even looking like he does, when everyone could see he is as far from all right as one can be.

“No.” He chuckles sadly, and looks at the mess around him, at his own blood staining the floor.

“Call when you need us,” she intones, making a promise he cannot ignore a second time, although he knows he will try.

“Thanks,” he says instead of making any concessions. Not that it matters much, because she has proven before that she can read him easily.

When the call ends, Tony remains motionless for several more minutes. He is not sure what this conversation means. Have they covertly forgiven each other for everything that went down after that article? Successful communication has never been one of his talents, but he usually surrounds him with the kind of people who do not care about that as long as they get what they want. The small rest has simply learned to read between the lines.

For now, he cannot say where he stands with Natasha, but there is no way to go but forward.

“JARVIS,” Tony says, much gentler than before, “save the work and get the coffee machine running.”

“As you wish, sir,” JARVIS answers dutifully, although still a bit coolly. “I would recommend taking care of your wounds.”

Trust Tony to build an AI that is skittish of blood – or, more to the point, _his_ blood.

“Already on it, J.”

Leaving the shards where they are for now, Tony gets to his feet and finds his extensively packed first-aid kit. This is not the first time he has wounded himself in the workshop, not even the first while having a panic attack. Howard, too, is fond of throwing things, usually bottles because he always has those in reach, so Tony likes to be prepared.

Getting himself cleaned up, he marvels at how much taking the shards out hurts more than the initial cuts. Humans are like that too, always lashing out at each other, but no matter how much it stings at first, the hardest part is the healing afterwards.

 

* * *

 

Even while avoiding the Tower, Tony spends a lot of time out of his apartment, mostly to meet with lawyers or to try to clear his head. He has finished some of his SI-related projects as long as they had nothing to do with weapons, and poured a lot of time into new ideas for Stark Resilient. Life has to go on, somehow, and he is now painfully aware of the time passing. Each day without an answer from Howard or a message from Steve only adds to his mounting insecurities. It feels like he has never managed to do anything right before, so how can he hope to be successful now?

Still, he puts all of his energy into it, just so he does not have to think about his recent losses. He sleeps little, eats when Pepper bullies him into it, and does not spend much time in his depressingly empty apartment, where he has nothing to distract him from his loneliness and increasing paranoia.

When Tony comes home one night to find his door unlocked, a hundred different scenarios flit through his mind, each worse than the one before. Perhaps Obadiah truly is not dead and has come for him now to settle the score, or some of his smuggler colleagues have found him, unwilling to give up on their golden goose. Howard could have found out. Or, least likely, Steve has come back to him. All of these let the nearly overwhelming need to run away rise inside his stomach.

Reckless idiot that he is, though, Tony pushes into his apartment nonetheless, unarmed except for his chilling fury. There are so few things he has only for himself. Up until now his work belonged to Howard, his every step and smile and word out in public gets witnessed and spread, his body and money are fought over. This is place is his, though, this is where he can be himself, and he will not let anyone take that away from him.

What he does not expect is Clint lounging on his couch and Natasha standing half in shadows in front of his windows, watching the city below them like a clichéd evil overlord. They look unchanged and, strangely enough, not out of place. Neither do they act like Tony’s surprise is in any way warranted.

Tony freezes only a few steps into the room, thinking he might be hallucinating. Stranger things have happened. It is more plausible, in any case, that thinking they are truly here.  

“Your working hours are insane,” Clint says by way of greeting and points at the pizza cartons sitting on the table. “Our food is cold by now.”

He sounds so nonchalant, like Tony has not run out on them, like they have not been on different sides of a fight that is still resonating deeply within his bones.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying for a demanding tone but ending up almost pleading. This world is severely lacking things he understands. One cannot calculate human emotions – he has tried.

Something twitches in Clint’s expression, but he leans back overly relaxed and demonstratively pats one of the cartons in front of him. “Have you eaten anything in the past two days?”

This has anger stirring inside Tony. What right do they have to come here, invade his home, and question how he spends his time? He told them to leave him alone, to stop pretending they would care one bit about his problems if they were not partially involved.

“I’m capable of feeding myself,” he snaps, despite that being arguably a lie. “I especially don’t need you to take a plane to New York just to bring me food.”

As if the thought only now occurs to him, Tony looks around, searching for a sign of Steve or Bucky, although he is not surprised when he finds nothing. Both of his unexpected guests are kind enough not to comment on that.

“I called Pepper,” Natasha announces suddenly, turning around to fix Tony with a reprimanding glare that he does not feel she has a right to. Since learning about her profession, though, Tony is even less inclined to tell her what to do. “She said you’re deteriorating. You don’t do anything else but work, drink, and wander around New York aimlessly. You don’t talk to her or Rhodey.”

She is right about that, because talking to his friends would mean he has to lie to them. There are so many things he cannot tell them, either because he does not want to load his problems onto them or because he does not know how to. In the long run, it is kinder to keep them out of the loop for a while until he has regained his equilibrium instead of pulling them down with his current bad mood.

Crossing his arms in front of him, Tony says, “That explains in no way what you are doing here.”

He wants them gone almost as much as he is relieved to have company other than whatever whiskey he pilfered from Howard’s stock. They know about what is currently happening, but they do not know him or why this is tearing him apart, other than for the obvious reasons. As much as he had enjoyed his time with Steve, it had been too easy to appear whole and happy for them because, with Steve’s arms around him, he felt that he could be just that. With all of that falling away, however, he is the same old drunk workaholic with nothing to pull him out of his misery.

Natasha musters him patiently in a way that feels like he is being dissected, like she has no difficulties peeling away all his layers until nothing but the bare, pitiable skeleton of his grating character is left.

“I assumed that you still haven’t told them what’s going on and try to shoulder through this alone,” she then says in a tone that he does not interpret as immediate dismissal, although he could not explain why she would keep bothering with him. “We told you that you don’t have to do this on your own.”

Her offer does not feel any more dishonest than the first time around, but Tony still does not know what to make of it.

“So, what?” He cannot help being irritated. It is usually easy to find out what people want from him, but he cannot read either of them. “You travel across the country to help me take down a smuggler ring and keep up the pretence that everything is fine?”

He stares at Natasha, who is naturally unfazed, so he turns his glare on Clint. The blonde raises his arms in front of him, although his face is not apologetic in the least.

“I’m just here for the takeout and because Nat needed someone to carry her bags.” Clint holds himself with the same carefree attitude he had before the incident with the article, everything about his demeanour open, welcoming Tony in.

“I don’t understand –” he says and trails off, wishing what they said was true. He could do with some more people on his side, although he curses himself for that thought immediately. He has two brilliant friends and a butler who never tired of playing father for him – he should be happy with that.

Howard’s voice sounds in his ears as if he is standing right next to Tony, _Starks don’t plead. Starks don’t feel sorry for themselves. Starks don’t own anybody anything._ Starks do a lot of things Tony is incapable of, it seems, but he is not surprised by that, his father has been telling him for decades, after all.

“Obviously not,” Natasha says curtly and frowns, studying him the way Pepper does sometimes when she thinks he is being particularly dense.

Curiously enough, he feels irritated at the comparison and at the situation itself. “Do you expect me to simply forget how things ended the last time when I thought I could trust you?” he questions, voice incredulous. He is determined to get an answer, to not repeat all of his mistakes.

It is not Natasha who meets his challenge, though, and he has not expected her to. While she is proficient at handling problems, she appears to refer to Clint for everything related to emotions.

“It was a mess, yes. We were hurt, and you were the likely scapegoat.” Clint winces, honesty shining on his face. Tony does his best to believe him, but he is not sure whether he succeeds. “I’m sorry for that.”

“So this is it? You feel sorry.”

Laughter scrapes up Tony’s throat. This could be amusing if it were not so sad. No one has ever felt sorry for him. Even Pepper and Happy must have only stayed for the money he paid them in the beginning until they were too far in. And Rhodey – well, he can honestly say he does not know why Rhodey decided to save him at MIT, or why he has not made the sane choice and left any time since then.

Clint, on the other hand, does not look amused. On the contrary, his face is stricken, even while his eyes narrow in irritation. “Dammit, Tony,” he snaps, somehow managing to sound both contrite and determined. “Of course we’re sorry for throwing you out. That doesn’t mean we’re doing this out of some misguided feeling of guilt. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t keep up an act for so long.”

“Right,” Tony drawls, hating himself for it, “only people like me do that.”

This is why no one likes him; because he has taken his father’s teaching to heart and keeps the whole world at bay by lashing out at anyone attempting to come close, just so he will not appear as weak as he truly is. Why is it so hard to admit that he is only human too?

While Natasha simply raises an eyebrow at him, apparently not surprised by his answer, Clint stares at him in something like fascination, his mouth slightly open as if he has not yet decided whether he will shout or just finally send Tony running. A firmness settles on his features then that does not bode well for Tony.

“Sit down, and allow me to translate our intentions into words that might pierce that thick skull of yours,” Clint orders in a tone he very rarely adopts. It is one that makes it suddenly possible to imagine him as a soldier, the kind who meets a Russian spy and turns her to his side. He is unrelenting in a way that does not fit his cheerful, happy-go-lucky attitude. It makes Tony think that he is not the only actor around here, but he cannot decide whether that is a bad thing.

Tony stares, arms crossed in front of him, and thinks about turning around to simply leave. There are enough places he can hide for the time being, until they give up whatever game they are playing and stop bothering him.

Something about Clint seems earnest, though, and he does not _want_ to go. He is tired of getting pushed back to that lonely place where he does not trust anyone. It still takes Tony another minute or two before he can get his legs moving again. Clint waits more or less patiently for him, eyes soft even while his face does not allow any argument. A small smile spreads on his lips when Tony collapses on an armchair, sighing quietly in relief at the opportunity to give his tired bones a rest.

“I’m sorry for being a douche,” Clint intones and makes a gesture with his hand that seems like an aborted motion to reach out for Tony. “I am your friend, that little episode notwithstanding. Then you talked to Nat last week and babbled something about _we,_ while Nat was moping because she didn’t want you to sit around here alone, so she took that as permission to come and help.”

Natasha nods along, conveying seriousness even while she looks like she is wondering why they are still bothering with explanations when they could already be doing things to make all of them feeling better.

“You said there was nothing we need to do.” Tony is holding onto the thought that they are only here for business. Deep down he can admit it does not sound like it, that Clint seems more serious and Natasha more interested than he has ever seen them before. Accepting their intentions, however, would also mean to accept that they think he is worth it. He has always had his problems with that.

“About Stane,” Natasha agrees, “but I think it will do you good to take care of the rest of those scumbags.” She looks slightly disgusted for a moment, and Tony sits motionless, trying to process her words.

All this time, his priority had been to stop Obadiah. He is aware that there are dozens of other people involved, both on this side of the sea and not. The information he has gathered proves that. By allowing Obadiah to go free, however, he has created more problems for himself, since he cannot simply turn the rest over to the police without his involvement being found out.

Natasha’s offer to do the rest of the job her way is tempting if terrifying. Then again, this is what he has been doing for years now, providing other people with what they need to fight, to kill. No one will expect him to take a gun and take care of those smugglers himself.

“So you just packed your thinks and – came here?”

Natasha looks like she is close to rolling her eyes. “I think Clint already told you that’s what friends do.”

That word is still jarring in Tony’s ears. Unable to hide his bitterness, he asks, “Does Steve know you’re here?”

Because they are family, so Tony can hardly imagine that Steve, who is loyal and over-protective, does not know where they are, much less approves of it. He has not accompanied them, though, which is enough of a declaration.

Natasha surprises him, though, by saying, “We did not explicitly tell him.”

While Tony stares at her with wide eyes, Clint snorts and clarifies, “What Nat means is that they are not currently on speaking terms.”

The thought that they have argued over him – with Natasha and Clint obviously in favour of helping him out while Steve does not seem to want anything to do with him anymore – settles heavily inside Tony’s chest, turning each heartbeat into a sting.

“But why?” he asks, his whole body tense, waiting for the command to get up and run. He never wanted to get between them, to ruin a good friendship simply by being himself and loading his own baggage onto their shoulders. It is not fair.

“Because he’s an idiot who’s let go of a good thing twice now, and still doesn’t listen to reason,” Natasha scoffs, sounding like she is absolutely certain that this is the right course of action. “I told him to sort out his head before he comes bothering me again.”

Amongst the misery, a hint of warmth spreads through Tony. Still, he cannot help but protest. “I don’t need you to champion me.”

“Please, Stark,” Natasha chuckles, “I already have a fulltime job. I don’t need another.”

Strangely enough, that is what finally calms him. Lying might come as easily to her as it does to him, but everything about her seems utterly honest at this moment; her annoyance with Steve’s behaviour, her willingness to help, the nonchalance with which she still considers him a friend. Clint, too, seems entirely on board with the situation. He still cannot believe that they have simply come here, without a word, probably expecting him to react badly to their sudden presence but not caring about that.

“JARVIS,” he says, finding himself wearing an honest smile for the first time in weeks, small but undeniably there, “please turn on the oven. We need to reheat some pizzas.”

He does notice the way Natasha’s shoulders lose some of their tension and how Clint begins slouching in earnest, and that touches him more than their determination from before. Everyone can browbeat someone else into doing something with the right amount of stubbornness, but them being relieved at his acceptance means so much more.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. He owes them more than words. A simple apology like that does not renege everything he said before, his doubt and his anger, but it needs to be said nonetheless.

Unable to meet their eyes any longer, Tony gets up and reaches for the pizza carton. His stomach grumbles in response. He does not think he has eaten anything this day.

“We all are.” Clint shrugs, and helps him carry the cartons to the kitchen, while Natasha stays behind in the living room, taking her chance to sprawl out on the couch. They work together hand in hand as if they have done so a hundred times before, as if they are truly friends. Maybe they could be. “That’s just life, so get on with it.”

Snorting humourlessly, Tony asks, “When did you become so wise?”

“I often slept in the fortune teller’s trailer as a kid, because she left me alone if I didn’t disturb her,” Clint says casually, as if Tony has always known about his circus days. “You can’t believe all the shit she used to tell people, but some of it was really good advice.”

Tony can do nothing but stare. That, right there, was the sign of trust he has unconsciously been waiting for. Telling him about his childhood, if only some small piece, feels more real than the careful dancing around they have done until now. Taking him in that night after Steve threw him out and coming to his aid now could still be just a twisted ploy to make him play nice with them until Natasha knows all she needs to. Having actual conversations, though, means that not all chances are lost that they could re-build something more meaningful.

“Thanks,” Tony mutters, gripping the oven door too tightly, but then Clint reaches out and bumps his shoulder, telling him he understands what Tony cannot find the words for.

“Don’t mention it,” he answers cheerfully. Then he looks up with a mischievous grin. “Actually, do mention it the next time Sam comes around. He always tells me I should try to grow up at one point. Maybe he’ll leave me alone if you tell him how very mature I can be.”

A true smile spreads slowly on Tony’s lips. He has not yet met Sam, but Clint’s casual mention of a possible future meeting somehow gives him all the hope he needs to keep going for a while longer.  Steve just needs time, he is aware of that, and maybe it will not be so hard to give it to him, just so they can finally sort this thing out, no matter which way it will go, and return to living their lives. Maybe they can stay friendly afterwards, so he does not have to lose all of these brilliant people. If he tries really hard, he can almost convince himself that he would be all right with losing his chance for love for that.

 

* * *

 

After that, it would be stupid to not include Natasha in his plans. Truth be told, after dealing with Obadiah, Tony had dutifully dug up every piece of information about his smuggler friends that he could, but reached an impasse when he did not know what to do with it. If he went the legal way, the whole matter could still come to haunt them, and now he could not claim to have been clueless anymore. Apart from Natasha, he does not know any other ex-assassins or people with a proclivity to take out offending subjects, so it makes only sense to partner up with her.

Natasha on a mission is beautiful to behold. Terrifying but beautiful. Tony is glad they have decided he is on their side, after all, because the efficiency with which she brings down the smuggler ring is nothing he ever wants to have directed against him.

Furthermore, they make for a terrific team. Tony finds her a target and Natasha trusts him to get her all relevant information to not send her in unprepared. It takes her surprisingly little time to deal with each of them, too, and she is more subtle about it than the fire in her eyes promises. Scandals, accidents, minor offences turning into investigations unearthing previously unknown depths of depravity. Some of them do die, yes, and Tony wonders at first how to feel about that, but they fall into a routine and soon he simply greets her home and smiles grimly when she strikes another name off their list, turning to the next one without another thought. It feels admittedly good, that low-burning satisfaction that comes from dealing out justice after he, and through him the world, was wronged.

Clint helps in his own way by staying out of their business and making sure both of them eat and sleep and do things to relax like watching shitty TV with him. It feels nice, like they have become friends without Steve’s interference.

And Steve – well, it still hurts, and Tony still longs for something he cannot get, but the loss does not feel as crushing anymore. The silence is telling, of course, and soothing in its own way, because they might have never had a chance to talk things through, but at least it is an obvious ending. Clint and Natasha are regularly talking with him or Bucky, but neither ever mentions Steve asking for him. So that is that, and Tony is willing to accept that. Neither of them will be able to go on if they keep looking back and, at this point, Tony feels like flying, ready to leave this part of his life behind. New beginnings have always felt lonely, but this time he is actually building something of his own. That has to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Obadiah is dead. Right? 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear from you.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you all for reading and commenting. I've taken some time off today to actually read through what I'm going to upload today and next week's chapter ;-)   
> Still, let me know if you find any more mistakes.   
> And now, enjoy!

Rhodey receives the news of Obadiah Stane’s death with mixed feelings. He has never liked the man, although he could not give an explicit reason for that, other than his general reluctance to deal with people who have more money than they can count. Tony loves him, though, because he has been more of a father to him than Howard ever was. Tony falls in love with the wrong kinds of people all the time, however, and never knows when to stop giving.

After watching the news, Rhodey clears his schedule and waits for Tony to call him. That is what they do, they catch each other when they fall and get through their bad times together.

Nothing happens. There is no message, no call, no drunken Tony appearing on his doorstep without warning. He does not even appear at Stark Industry’s press announcement. Rhodey knows that something is really wrong, when Tony does not go to the funeral either.

His first step when dealing with Tony doing something for a reason that is not immediately tangible, is to call Pepper – who, as it turns out, has no idea what is going on either, and that is what has him frightened.

Tony is immensely private, which is a learned trait because he was told he had to deal with his problems alone as to never show any weakness. Getting him to trust them was a process that spanned years, and they still have to fight sometimes to be let in. To have him withdraw from both of them at an obviously distressing time does not bode well. Rhodey did not even know Tony had returned to New York until Pepper complained about him being even less cooperative than usual when it comes to SI-related work.

This game of hide-and-seek has to stop, Rhodey realizes, so if Tony does not come to him, he will have to go looking for his answers himself.

To say it is a nasty shock to find two strangers lounging in Tony’s home as if they belong there would be a real understatement, especially considering that Pepper and he were all but shut out. He recognizes them as Steve’s friends, who he has met one time during that promised family dinner, and they had been nice enough, bordering on being a little crazy, but they are still such new additions to Tony’s life that Rhodey cannot explain their presence.

They look up when he enters the room, meeting his stare with an innocent smile on Clint’s part and a frighteningly level look from Natasha. She knows this is not a courtesy visit.

Unconsciously, Rhodey straightens to make himself seem taller, although he does not exactly perceive them as a threat. They are in Tony’s home, however, without the genius being present, and seem familiar with enough with their surroundings that it is unlikely they have only just arrived.

“All right,” he says, not quite growling, “I think it’s time someone told me what’s going on.”

Natasha reacts immediately if subtly. She shifts her stand to seem less threatening, which he is familiar with due to his work with the military. At the same time, though, her eyes issue a challenge of their own, not necessarily against him but as a warning to not see them as the enemy.

In comparison, Clint appears completely guileless. “Rhodey.” He grins like they have expected him, before he waves with the phone in his hand. “We are currently arguing whether we’re going to order Italian or Chinese. You’re welcome to pitch in.”

Rhodey is as taken aback by this answer as he is annoyed. He crosses his arms in front of him to avoid doing something embarrassing like clenching his fists. His goal here is not to threaten an answer out of them, but he is worried about Tony, so there is no time for banter.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Barton,” he snaps, “my best friend has been depressed for weeks. He’s getting thinner by the day, treats work like a chore, which you can believe me he has never done before, and has not dropped a single word about Steve, which I can only interpret one way, and that doesn’t bode well for him.”

All of which is information he has only gotten second-hand from Pepper, which is a kind of shame that is hard to ignore. He should know better than to believe Tony when he says he is fine and just too busy to talk much. This is a game they have been playing since MIT. Rhodey wanted Tony to be happy, though, to be too in love and too full of ideas to talk to Rhodey as extensively as he does when he feels lonely and out of his depths. He chose to see the silence as a good sign, forgetting for a moment that, with Tony, one always has to dig deeper.

Now, at least, Clint appears uncomfortable. His face scrunches up into a grimace if only shortly before he regains some semblance of nonchalance.

“There’s been some trouble on the love front, but I’m sure it won’t help if you’re going to punch Steve,” he says, deliberately vague, then adds wryly, “Nat’s already tried.”

That comes as a surprise. “You – you punched Rogers?” They are such a tightknit group, seeming ready to have each other’s backs no matter what. He wonders whether this delectable piece of news means that Tony has inspired some kind of loyalty in them, although that sends a stab of ugly jealousy through him. It has taken them years to build trust between them, so it is unfair to think that others would have it easier, although it could mean that Tony is slowly healing.

“He was being difficult,” Natasha speaks up, sounding like this is nothing out of the ordinary, which helps to calm Rhodey down a bit.

Relaxing his posture, he comes farther into the room and sits down on an armchair across from the pair of friends. “And has he stopped being difficult?”

“Not yet,” Clint snorts, and Natasha lets him take control of the conversation again easily. Between the two of them, he seems to be the spokesperson, while she seems more the type to glower and take action when needed.  “But we’re getting there. Even our very own Captain America can only be stubborn for so long until he’s caving when all of his friends take turns shouting at him.”

If Steve is anything like Tony, getting shouted at will only make him worse, but his friends should know what helps to make him see sense.

“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” Rhodey points out, getting irritated with how little information they are giving him.

Clint grins lazily as if he knows exactly what Rhodey is thinking. “We’re trying the whole moral support thingy,” he says, not bothering to hold back on cheekiness. “It’s incredibly rewarding.”

Realizing he will get nowhere with Clint, Rhodey turns towards Natasha, his face set in a stony expression. She looks vaguely apologetic as she shrugs. “You should talk to Tony.”

“I tried. He’s given me nothing.”

Rhodey’s mind is still hung up on the realization that Tony has neglected to tell him so much more than just the fact that he has returned to New York. He had noticed that Tony was not quite engaged in their conversations, but if Rhodey would take offence to that, they would not have become friends in the first place, because Tony is always occupied with one project or another, leaving him with little patience for the outside world. He is there for them when it counts, and they have long ago built a system that has them snapping Tony out of his mind when they feel he has buried himself in there for long enough. He had sounded all right, though, had smiled and made the occasional joke. More than anything, Rhodey is disappointed in himself for not recognizing that he was being lied to.

“Then maybe,” Natasha says slowly with the kind of intonation that shows she is aware her words will not be received well, “he doesn’t want you to know.”

Feeling the urge to laugh, Rhodey makes an effort to scowl instead. Leaving Tony to his own devices is seldom a good idea. “Him bottling up what’s bothering him has never helped matters before.” That only ever ends in explosions or fights, none of which actually solves problems but only creates new ones.

“He’s not bottling anything up,” Clint interjects smoothly, sounding slightly too confident to be entirely truthful. “We’re here for that.”

“Excuse me if that doesn’t inspire me with confidence,” Rhodey says and is back to outright glaring.

He is not sure what kind of problem Tony could have that would cause him to seek for help from people other than him or Pepper. He is caught in a strange limbo between resenting them for basically taking his place and being glad that Tony has apparently reached out to someone even if he thought he could not ask him.

“What do you expect us to tell you?” Natasha says, her voice cool but her eyes shining with something like understanding. “You know better than we do that Tony will not forgive any of us if we’re going behind his back like this. We’re here because Tony invited us to stay.” She looks fond for a moment, which reassures Rhodey more than anything that she is not here to make things worse. “He might not have asked us to come, but that’s a problem we’ve been working on. When he’s ready, he’ll talk to you. He’s already suffering because he’s keeping you out of the loop.”

That takes the fight out of Rhodey, because she is right. The trick with dealing with Tony is to let him have control, to not tell him what to do even if it is with his best interest in mind. People have done that all his life and he is still fighting to shake off the lasting effects of that. Being someone’s friend means to sometimes take a step back and let them do what they feel they need to do, no matter how hard it is.

Still, he musters his energy and straightens again. “I’ll find out what this is about,” he says, more a threat than a promise, “and if you hurt him –”

“We already did,” Clint cuts in without the slightest sense of self-preservation. At his side, Natasha sighs quietly but does not make a move to silence him. “We were being stupid because we were hurt. That’s not an excuse, by the way.” He looks uncomfortable but does not stop. “We took it out on him, then he yelled at us and left, and now we’re here trying to make it up to him, because Tony is a good guy and he deserves better.”

Rhodey sits motionless for a long moment and does nothing but stare at them and wonder how he should continue now that his speech has been interrupted.

“Are you sure you’re not making it worse by camping out here?” he then asks, because Tony is the kind of person who willingly swallows poison if he thinks it garners him some goodwill with people he wants to like him.

“We’ve come to an understanding,” Natasha says, while Clint looks rather grim. “We’ve also decided to look closer this time, to see when he needs us to leave, even when he cannot say so.”

“You’ve figured it all out, then?” Rhodey sneers, irritation spiking inside him. “Tony is a human being. He can be difficult but deep down he’s like everyone else. He does not need you to keep toying with him, because he’s fragile and he’s suffered one too many hits already. Apparently from you too.”

“With leaving, I meant letting him have back his space,” Natasha clarifies. “We’re not going to make the same mistake twice and abandon him without warning. If he needs space, we’ll give it to him, that doesn’t mean we won’t stay around to help.”

“Because that’s what he needs most, yes?” Clint speaks up. “Someone who stays?”

They sound honest enough, although Rhodey feels his frustration rising again at not knowing what Tony needs help with or what caused them to leave in the first place. More than anything, he wants to go and punch one Steve Rogers, who he thought would be good for Tony but who has now just left another scar.

Sinking back into the armchair, he pinches the bridge of his nose as if that will actually help with the headache he feels building. “Is he all right?” he then asks quietly, unaccustomed to asking other people this when he is usually so good at seeing the answer for himself.

“No,” Natasha tells him bluntly, and he is glad for her honesty, “but we’re getting there. This is something that could potentially hurt you too, so he’s trying to protect you.”

Rhodey wishes he could laugh at that, but he feels only miserable. “I don’t need protection.” Throughout all of their friendship, it has been him protecting Tony, and that had always felt right.

“But maybe Tony needs to feel like he can do it anyway.” Natasha and Clint share a look that tells him they might know more about how that feels than they are letting on.

Numbly, Rhodey nods. It is a hard thing to accept, but he cannot deny Tony’s wish to give something back, even if it is not necessary. He opens his mouth, ready to continue the argument, just because he does not feel that anything is resolved yet, but he clicks his jaw shut only moments later. Before he does anything else, he needs to talk to Tony, needs to get a better understanding of what is going on here, more in any case than vague promises and hints, which is essentially all Clint and Natasha are feeding him.

Recognizing Rhodey’s acquiescence, Clint’s smile grows marginally more relaxed. “Maybe we can get back to the topic at hand now,” he says, cheerful in a way that is as honest as it seems practiced, “Chinese or Italian?”

 

* * *

 

Much later, when they hear a key turn in the lock, Rhodey stiffens in his seat. He has been waiting impatiently for Tony to arrive for hours, but now that it is happening he feels the first tendrils of panic spreading through him. What are they going to say to each other? Should Rhodey apologize for barging in here, for not trusting Tony enough to let him sort out his problems on his own? Should he press for answers, even though he does not quite know how to ask the questions that are bothering him?

Rhodey has not come to a decision when Tony appears in his line of sight, faltering in the doorway as he takes them in. The picture they are offering must be overwhelming in its unexpectedness. Rhodey has given up the armchair in favour of the couch where he has easier access to the food piled on the table. He sits in between Clint and Natasha like he belongs there, like he has always been part of the group. While that is not actually what he likes to project, he thinks it is better than the alternative of them facing off. Whatever Tony is dealing with, he does not need to have his friends’ fighting piled on top of that too.

For a long moment, they are all encased in silence, while Tony searches for something to say, half-expecting trouble, and Clint and Natasha deciding to let the two friends deal with this in their own time.

Seeing the way Tony stands in an almost defensive posture, his jaw clenched in uncertainty, Rhodey realizes that his questions can wait. If Tony needs them to be supporting, he can easily play that role, so he waves and grins, wholly unconcerned.

“Nat’s telling me you’re inviting her out to the Met,” Rhodey says, although it has been strongly implied that Natasha is literally bullying Tony into taking a night off. That she happens to like the theatre is just an added bonus. “Why don’t you ever take me to the ballet?”

He is careful to make his voice sound reassuring, not holding a single trace of his former doubts. It still takes Tony a breathless minute to come to his senses, and when he shifts his stance he looks like he is a little less likely to turn around and run.

“I guess he doesn’t want you to put a strain on your brain capacity,” Clint pipes up, voice infused with sarcasm, but he too is eyeing Tony carefully. “You did end up in the Air Force, that means there’s not much he can work with.”

Natasha snorts quietly and pats the couch next to her with a pointed stare, while the two men at her side fall into their bickering easily until Tony relaxes and comes slowly farther into the room.

“Move over, Barton,” Rhodey orders when Tony seems unsure whether there is truly room for him among them. “You’re getting fat from all the takeout.”

Clint grumbles but does as he is told, then pokes Tony with his chopsticks, guiding him to finally sit.

“I feel like I should be afraid of you three banding together,” Tony says as he settles down, quiet but otherwise holding up. Questions shine in his eyes but there is time for that later.

“We would have invited Pepper, but we wanted to avoid having to eat healthy food.” Rhodey mock-shudders and puts a plate down on Tony’s lap.

“Imagine that,” Tony answers, mostly automatically, but a smile spreads on his lips which Rhodey counts as a victory.

It should be uncomfortable or at least crowded, the four of them trying to fit on the couch, but even while elbows sometimes hit exposed sides painfully and Natasha’s feet somehow end up in each of their laps at some point, it feels right, safe even. Rhodey thinks neither of them wants to miss this again.

 

* * *

 

Obadiah Stane’s death leaves a bitter taste in Steve’s mouth when he hears the news. There is satisfaction, certainly, but his thoughts go immediately to Tony – although the genius is never far from his mind these days anyway. There are pictures from the funeral, which is way too ostentatious for a man like that, and Howard Stark features in a number of them, stone-faced and cold but grieving, but there is neither a glimpse nor mention of Tony. Steve wonders whether he is all right, whether he is coping.

Sometimes he still feels the phantom pain of Natasha punching him. He understands her anger better now, even though he had only been trying to get her to talk to Tony for him, to maybe convince him to call Steve or even come back so they could sort this out.

_It’s not Tony who has to do any of the coming back here, Rogers_ , Natasha had sneered, _or any of the work to make that happen_.

All of them had told him to sort out his issues. The thing is, he still wants the same thing. He wants his family to be safe, and he wants Tony. Something has shifted in his mind set, though, making it less of an all-or-nothing situation. Maybe he can learn to make compromises, to stop expecting the world to fall apart if he does not rush to its rescue immediately. Maybe he can allow things to happen instead of trying to control all of it.

Clint and Natasha have been gone for over a week now and no one has cared to keep Steve updated about what is going on, even though they are still talking with Bucky. That should not feel like a punishment, although he probably deserves it.

Steve has thought about calling again. Maybe Natasha deems it safe by now and he could actually reach Tony, but he can barely find the right words when he is writing them down, trying to compile a speech of sorts so he will not have to rely on emotions alone. He is getting nowhere with this, so he does the next best thing and pours all his pitiful notes into one letter. An honest-to-god paper letter with real ink. He can imagine Tony rolling his eyes in amused exasperation at that, although it is equally possible he will not even open it.

It begins and ends with an _I’m sorry_ , has a dozen variants of that strewn in. He is trying to explain without making it sound like he feels he was justified in doing what he did, which is harder than it should be because Steve runs on emotions. There is nothing rational about it.

It does not help, naturally, that they are still mostly strangers. He has read about the person Tony is supposed to be, but with Steve he was always kind, leaving that part of his character completely out of their relationship. Likewise, Steve has hidden his past where Tony cannot reach it. With him, he is an artist, a friend, a _good_ man. All of his trauma, his stubborn fixation on the people closest to him, remained buried.

The matter is actually very simple. When faced with a problem, Steve wants to protect his family, and for some reason he had, in his panic, not counted Tony among them. The problem lies with him and he is getting closer to solving it. He is afraid of letting someone else in, of having someone else to keep safe, to possibly disappoint. Even years after it happened, Steve wakes from nightmares in which he does not get to Bucky in time, in which all of his friends vanish and he cannot do anything against that. He imagines Tony in that situation, brown eyes widened in pain and tanned skin crisscrossed with scars, and cannot bear it.

Pushing Tony away, even subconsciously is not an answer, of course, especially not this way, not when _he_ is the one dealing out the pain. How can there be trust between them, however, when they do not know each other? Not completely. Not the parts that hurt.

Steve wants to try again. Not like they have done before, fancying themselves in love while not scratching beneath the surface. He can do better. He can _be_ better. He can allow himself to trust Tony, and maybe get Tony to trust him.

Gathering up the letter he has painstakingly composed, Steve gets to his feet to search for Bucky. His friends have told him a dozen times now that he is too brash in his decisions, and while it feels like he has done nothing but think for weeks, he will not accidentally make things worse again.

He finds Bucky in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. Without a word, Steve puts the letter in front of him and takes a seat at their table, staring down at his hands.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, sounding slightly suspicious even though their pranking days are long over.

“It’s – I –” Steve searches for an explanation but gives up with a shrug. “Just read it.”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment, scrutinizing, and Steve thinks he will be refused. They are right, of course, that this is his mess and he has to clean it up, but they have always been a team. All his life, he has depended on Bucky, there is no way he can stop now. He does not hide his relieved sigh when Bucky starts reading, no matter that he frowns as he does so.

Seconds trickle by, building up into an eternity, while Steve is losing all of his fake courage. What is a letter actually going to change? What will Tony do other than laugh at his naivety, his daring?

“That’s not an apology,” Bucky finally says, looking at Steve in a way that has his stomach dropping.

It is a good thing then that he did not send it. He is not sure, though, what he will do instead. That piece of paper holds all his rambling feelings pushed into something nearly coherent. How is he going to do better than that without crossing whatever boundaries are keeping them from each other now? He wishes he could just pack his things and go to New York, to _see_ Tony again, but he is not sure he will be welcome – or that he _should_ be welcome, for that matter.

“I was trying –” Trailing off, Steve runs a hand through his hair, uncertain how to continue. It feels like he is always only trying.

“It’s not an apology,” Bucky repeats slowly, “but a love letter.”

He holds the paper in front of him, eyes scanning Steve’s elegant if shaky writing, but he does not show any emotion that Steve can interpret.

“Is that a bad thing?” Steve asks, although he knows it is. Tony does not need to be reminded that Steve loves him, he just needs to see that Steve can put that over the love he has for his family.

“No.” Shaking his head, Bucky looks strangely sad. “It’s not bad. It’s just –”

“Not what I should be going for?” Steve has written down what has been going through his head, all the words he could muster until he felt completely empty. “You all said I shouldn’t try to find excuses.” Because what he did should not be excused. Maybe he has known that all along.

“That’s right.” Bucky nods but does not say anything else, obviously torn.

“It’s too much, yes?” Steve asks, getting desperate because this distance between him and Tony is only ever growing with every day he does nothing. “I’m not giving him room with this but just keep pushing.”

Grimacing, Bucky takes a sip of his coffee to buy himself more time. “You want him back, that’s what I read in here. You say you’re sorry a lot and you’re even saying why. But,” he shrugs, helpless, “you’re not offering to leave him alone if he wants that.”

That is because Steve does not want to lose Tony, he does not want to be just another person that left. Bucky is right, though, it would not be fair to keep pushing like that. Not when he is not good for Tony.

“I’ll change that,” he says dejectedly, holding out his hand for the letter, but Bucky hesitates to let go of it.

“I’m not sure he will answer,” Bucky cautions slowly, “not immediately. So don’t –”

_Don’t expect too much. Don’t get your heart broken, especially since it’s your fault you’re in this situation at all. Don’t pretend I didn’t tell you beforehand. Don’t keep running after a lost cause._

Bucky does not say any of that but Steve hears it all, echoing relentlessly inside him.

“I have to try,” he answers softly and takes the letter back, absentmindedly smoothing out some of the creases that are already marring the paper.

In response, Bucky smirks humourlessly. “That’s all we can ever do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm expecting protest (don't think I want to stop you from that, send it all!), but keep in mind that Rhodey has no idea what's going on. He should see that something's wrong (but it's almost canon that he can be wilfully blind, yes? Tbh, I'm still bitter about him welcoming Steve back home so easily in Infinity War, even with a crisis at hand...) I can promise that he will find out!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos.  
> Enjoy!

Despite trying his hardest not to, Tony feels the deadline he has given his father come closer. The longer he goes without hearing anything, the less confident he feels. He can pose and pretend all he wants, if Howard does not want him to get his footing with a company of his own, he can make it very hard if not nearly impossible. Tony is sure he will manage somehow, but it will be another drawn out battle

At the end of the month, Pepper arrives at his office with a stack of papers in her hands, which Tony is sure has to be both their resignation forms and paperwork from the legal department, detailing exactly what they are and are not allowed to do with their possible future company, especially since Tony wants it to bear such a similar name to Stark Industries.

Pepper’s face is excited as she sits in the chair in front of his desk. They have not explicitly talked about it, but Tony knows she would follow him wherever he goes. Her current job at Stark Industries depends on him in a way, of course, but they would find a new place for her in no time at all, and one that would likely not drive her into an early grave. They are a team, though. Tony might not be able to explain _how_ it happened, but he has given up on doubting it.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Pepper breathes, laughing, “but you’re a genius.”

Too surprised, Tony foregoes the chance to make a choice comment, and simply reaches for the paperwork. He is not sure what she was rooting for, really, that they stay or that they make their own way.

_Stark Resilient_ it reads on the very first page, and Tony cannot help the churning of his stomach. This is it, he thinks, he has finally managed to push Howard too far. He puts effort into his expression, though. He has been taught to accept defeat graciously, after all.

“Keep reading, Tony,” Pepper chides him, still far too cheerful. Since he has never managed to refuse her, he does, eyes widening with every new paragraph.

“Let me see if I got this right,” he says once he is through with the first document, which seems to be an overview for a longer contract. “Howard is dividing the company into two main divisions, one dealing with the good old weapons business and another one, helpfully labelled the _non-weapons department_ , calling that one _Stark Resilient_ , and making me the head of it to do with as I see fit.”

His head is reeling as he cannot comprehend why his father, who usually meets him with undisguised contempt, would actually agree to give him this chance.

“Within reason, of course,” Pepper agrees, sounding as out of her depths as he feels, but determined to tackle the task, no matter that her already high workload has just tripled.

The divisions are not evenly split. Weapons will still be what they are making their money with to keep this new experimental idea afloat. Until, hopefully, Tony will make them profits on his own. He will not get the same funding or manpower, but all of this is still more than he has ever dared to hope for, too fantastic almost to believe.

“Of course,” Tony echoes, his voice hoarse. The papers beneath his fingers feel painfully real, but he cannot help but expect them to vanish right in front of his eyes. He has to consciously keep himself from clenching his hands into fist, to hold this giant chance for freedom as tightly as he can.

“This is amazing,” Pepper says, holding a clipboard like she cannot wait to get started on this. Her gaze is searching, though, taking in every twitch of uncertainty on his face because she knows to look for them.

“I didn’t think he’d actually do something like this,” Tony says, mostly to himself, waiting for Howard to come into his office, sneering at his naivety, telling them it was only a ruse so he could have a laugh while throwing them off the premises.

It could happen. They have never worked well together, but Howard liked it even less when Tony did his projects independently, which left less room for him to be controlled, guided. It is hard to believe that he has changed his opinion on that, and harder that he would actually trust Tony.

Pepper puts her clipboard down on the top of his desk louder than necessary, effectively bringing him back to the present. “Oh, don’t you dare start doubting yourself right now,” she chides, worry creeping in, visible by the slight deepening of the wrinkles around her eyes.

“I don’t,” Tony protests, purely for her benefit. “It’s just – this means a lot of work.”

Pepper snorts, wordlessly telling him exactly what she thinks about his ridiculous argument. “And we’re up for it.”

She is right. They are used to working much, and they have proof of the legitimacy of this opportunity in their hands for now, so nothing can stop them. With Pepper at his side, he will turn this into a success. That is what they do, after all.

It is merely a formality, but there is a question he needs to ask, if only because they have been friends for years and he still sometimes expects her answer to change. “So you’ll do this with me?”

“I won’t set you up for failure now,” Pepper tells him with a long-suffering sigh. “And you’ll never manage without me.”

That is true in all areas of his life. Without Rhodey he would not have made it through MIT, and without Pepper he likely would have ruined his life not long after. “You’re the best, Pep,” Tony says quietly, knowing he will never find the right words to tell her how much she truly means to him. Nothing he could say would measure up.

Her smile turns soft for a moment, but she does not linger on it, does not let the atmosphere turn awkward. “Thank me with new shoes.”

It could be Tony’s imagination, but that almost sounds like a reprimand. There was a time Tony could not apologize to her too, and shoes became their middle ground. Maybe this is her reassuring him once again that she not only understands him but that she trusts him to come to a point where she does not have to read between the lines anymore, no matter how long it takes.

“Two pairs, at least,” he grins and decides to let her hold onto that belief.

Then his eyes turn back to the documents in front of him. _Stark Resilient_. There it is. Black on white. His chance to finally do something that matters.

“You know,” Tony says, turning sombre all of a sudden, “you were right.”

“Naturally,” Pepper answers haughtily, unable to stop her smiling, although she picks up on his changed mood. “About what?”

He pushes the papers away from him as if he needs some distance from them. “All the times you told me things will look up again if only I let them.” He does not sound like he feels that things are better, but there is a weightlessness to his bones and his hands are itching to get to work, even though his heart is still heavy, rooting him in place.

A frown flits over Pepper’s forehead as she leans forward. “Does that mean you’re ready to tell me what’s been gnawing on you these past weeks?”

He should have known he would not fool her, but she held out for an admirably long time before calling him out on it. She does not usually let him wallow in his self-pity for so long.

“Everything,” Tony laughs, although not as bitter as he might have done an hour ago. “You must have figured out by now that things with Steve didn’t work out as I wanted them to.” Pepper winces but he ignores her, does not want to linger on the ridiculous thought that she too believed he could find his happy ending. “But Howard always told me everything’s a trade, and if I have to trade Steve to get an opportunity like this –” Tony trails off, shrugging.

It does not quite feel like working independently is worth losing his chance for love, but he has to think of people other than himself. Setting his mind on other projects than weapons might help to make the world a better place at one point and to ease his conscience, much more in any case as if he kept spending his time chasing happiness in Steve’s arms, agreeing to everything Howard wants just to keep his peace.

Pepper sees more than he wants her to and he can practically watch her tuck all the information he has just unconsciously given her away for later. Now, however, she simply straightens and glares at him. All that is missing to complete the picture of pure indignation is her putting her hands on her hips.

“That is not how this works, Tony,” she all but snaps, but he knows she is not angry with him. Years of experience have taught him when to duck and when she is simply being protective of him. “You deserve to work on things you actually want to build _and_ to find someone who you can be happy with. If that’s not Steve, then screw him.” The righteousness in her voice almost makes Tony laugh, but he carefully pushes the urge down, afraid it will come out hysterical. “There is someone who’s right for you. Don’t settle, and don’t you dare think you don’t get to have your happy ending just because it’s not as easy as we might like it to be.”

Nothing about this has ever been easy. Even loving Pepper had turned out wrong in the end, because she might be able to deal with his antics in a professional and even friendly setting, but he had never had any hopes of meeting her requirements for lovers.

Steve had been easy to fall in love with and easier to idolize. He had felt safe. Tony remembers the first time Steve had shown him a drawing of himself, remembers what a shock it was to see himself as Steve did. There was nothing ugly to those pictures, nothing full of greed and self-importance, just busy hands and shining eyes.

“I think,” Tony starts and breaks off, feeling something inside him shift to keep this secret from getting out. At the same time, it blocks his airway, making it impossible to ignore. “I still, well, love him.” Flinching from his own idiocy, he avoids Pepper’s eyes. “That’s stupid, right?”

Pepper takes her time to answer. He can feel her studying gaze on him, while he stares at his hands. “It’s – no,” she then says, and corrects herself immediately, “well, it depends on what happened.”

He could tell her, _should_ , really. Thinking back on it hurts, though, and imagining what she will think and do is worse. She will tell him it is not his fault, and maybe she is right about that, but Tony is far beyond assigning guilt. He just wants to get past this.

When he wishes for Steve to come back to him, it is more that he would like nothing more than to return to that weightless state of being exactly where he wants to be, even while he is not naïve enough to think that he could reach that as he is now. Like this, he will just wait for the next time they crash, the next thing Steve will blame him for in a panic. They have fallen in with each other before they could establish a way to communicate in a time of crisis. They could manage that, brave for future storms, but that is still not a rational thought.

“Steve wasn’t ready.” Tony shrugs. He, on the other hand, is usually too ready to throw himself headfirst into any situation with no way back.

Pepper’s scepticism rises, and he loves her for that. “For what?”

“Me?” No one is ever ready for him, because they expect one thing and get another. He is the shining billionaire and crazed mechanic and vulnerable moron overwhelmed with the world’s social rules all rolled into one. The more comfortable he gets, the more the lines blur. “I don’t know. He has issues, but I have issues too, and we just clashed. He lashed out and I accepted the blame for something I couldn’t change.”

_The usual_ , he could say, but it is not. Steve never seemed to want anything from Tony but his company, his love. He did not ask for money or help to promote his art, he had not even accepted when Tony wanted to build him a new phone. All of that seemed genuine.

When he read that article, he just lost it and all of his friends followed suit.

“You’re already talking yourself into forgiving him, aren’t you?” Pepper asks, shaking her head.

“I miss him.”

It feels like an enormous weight drops off his chest simply by saying these words. For weeks he has been turning their last conversations over and over inside his head, looking for all the ways they went wrong, searching for solutions. It is as simple as that. No matter whether he thinks they can get another chance or should try their hand at it, no matter whose fault it was that they failed this time, no matter that he wants to go on and stop hurting, Tony misses Steve, ignoring all their baggage.

“All right,” Pepper says quietly, not quite disapproving but definitely not happy either. “We can work with that.”

Tony thinks that might just be the most comforting thing anyone has ever told him. Pepper’s tendency to make things work is something he has always admired, especially where he is involved, since he never manages to do that on his own. It is like she looks at him and does not see something that is irrevocably broken but something she can fix and polish until he is almost nice and whole.

“I don’t –” he protests nonetheless but ceases talking immediately when Pepper clicks her tongue.

“You won’t be running after him,” she says, her voice crisp and allowing no argument, “are we clear on that?”

She gets like that sometimes and simply takes control. Usually, Tony is happy to let her because it is so much easier to let her take one assessing look at the situation and then do her magic, while Tony would be left hovering in a permanent state of uncertainty whether what he is doing is right – and pushing ahead even though he knows it is not.

He cannot always hide behind her, though, cannot hope she will continue to make his decisions for him.

“You don’t even know what happened,” Tony points out helplessly, even though he has no desire to finally cave and let her in on everything that has gone wrong lately.

“You’re welcome to tell me,” she shrugs but does not give him much time to butt in, already knowing he will not, “but since you seem not inclined to do so, I’ll have to make do with what information I have, which is that you are prone to thinking everything’s your fault even when other people screw up.”

This is an argument they have had a thousand times already. People are usually quick to blame Tony because he conducts himself in a way that either makes him the probable culprit or that makes it seem like he can handle the blame easily, letting it ricochet off him without any indication that it has hit in the first place.  

“So you will not apologize for what you haven’t done and you won’t offer your other cheek,” Pepper continues sternly, although her eyes are gentle, almost pleading for him to listen to her for once in a matter like this. “If Steve doesn’t come to you, you won’t try to change his mind. And if he does come, you’ll think long and hard about what you want. And that doesn’t have to be him, just because he made you happy for a short time.”

There is no denying that she is right, that the healthy thing would be to listen to her. It has been weeks, though, and still he cannot get Steve out of his head. The thing is, Steve made a mistake. He was hurt and lashed out, which is exactly what Tony does sometimes too. What he has to find out is whether Steve was simply overwhelmed by panic, not thinking straight, or whether he acted on feelings he already had. Coming to wrong conclusions in a moment of weakness would be something he could forgive, but if this will be a recurring theme, he had better stop yearning and start running now.

“I – I will think about it,” Tony says quietly. “Thank you.”

Pepper keeps looking solemnly at him for a moment longer, then her posture relaxes and she smiles. “Good, then we’ll stop the moping for the night. We have something to celebrate, and I know for a fact that you’ll have something in your wine rack that will live up to the occasion.”

Tony’s face brightens. There is still the heavy feeling of disappointment sitting in his stomach, but one part of moving on is to live in the present. Despite his personal drama, _Stark Resilient_ is happening.

“I’ll find us a bottle if you get glasses,” he says, already standing up.

“Leave it at one. We have work to do.”

The laughter bursting over Tony’s lips takes him completely by surprise, because thinking about Steve usually makes him feel like he will never laugh again. Pepper is right, though. They have work, thrilling work that he will make sure will be every bit as rewarding as he has hoped. All his faults aside, that is what he is good at, after all, so he will not let anyone take that from him, heartbreak or treason or not. He has promised once he will always rise, so he thinks it is time to make good on that.

 

* * *

 

“We need to talk,” Pepper says by way of greeting when Rhodey picks up his phone. She sounds stern and somehow sad, which is the clearest indication that this is about Tony. Her voice can hold a hundred different nuances of irritation where it comes to her boss, but it is the worry that has Rhodey sitting up straighter in his kitchen.

“Give me half an hour,” he answers, and is already moving, turning off his stove and going for his jacket.  

They sometimes have these crisis meetings when it is not enough to work alone on their respective ends of a problem and need to combine their strength instead. Tony is that much of a piece of work sometimes.

A dozen different scenarios are rushing through Rhodey’s head as he navigates New York’s streets, wondering what he has missed. When he met for dinner with Tony, Natasha and Clint the day before, everything seemed fine. Tony had dark bags under his eyes and sometimes stared off almost forlornly into the distance, but that is not uncommon when he is in the middle of some project. Other than that, he laughed and joked and moved around his guests with ease.

Something has been off for weeks, but Rhodey has blamed that on the separation from Steve – which he still does not know anything about – and his godfather’s untimely death. Tony is coping. In fact, this might be the healthiest he has ever dealt with a difficult situation. Only Pepper does not seem to think so. Or something else has happened in the past day Rhodey has not seen his best friend.

When he arrives at Pepper’s apartment, she is waiting for him with a glass of dark red wine in her hand, a tablet in the other, and a barely controlled expression, although Rhodey is not sure what exactly she is trying to hold in, worry or anger.

Rhodey takes his time to greet her and lets her pour him wine into the glass sitting on the couch table before they settle down. Then she taps away on her tablet and pushes it towards him.

“Remember the article that was published some weeks ago?” Pepper asks, a hint of coldness sharpening her words, “incidentally two days before Tony came home all depressed and ready to drown himself in anything containing alcohol?”

The thing is, Rhodey does _not_ remember. The article was nothing much out of the ordinary, and Tony had reassured him everything was fine when he questioned his sudden return and without Steve at his side at that. He had shrugged, blamed it on SI business and Rhodey had believed him. There is obviously more to why Steve did not accompany him, but Clint and Natasha reassured him they were working on it, and Tony did not act the way he usually does when he is heartbroken but remained driven to go forwards.

“What about it?” Rhodey asks, scanning the article. It is harsh, yes, leaves not a good hair on any of them, but it is just words on a piece of paper. Tony has had much worse.

“Tony came to me alone, looking like hell, and begged me to do something about it, to save their honour or some such nonsense, and that is the last I’ve heard of them.” Pepper clicks her tongue, adding impatience to her scathing tone. It sounds like that is mostly directed at herself. “Tony never shuts up about things or people he likes. Never.”

That is only insofar a problem that Tony usually loves tech more than other people, leading to him ranting for hours in purely technical terms, his mind jumping and twisting until no one but himself can make sense of it anymore. Tony’s obsessions with people are easier to follow, since it always follows the same pattern of infatuation and worry, and eventually sighing defeat.

“Only when he’s hurt,” Rhodey amends slowly.

Pepper nods curtly, apparently satisfied that he is following her line of thoughts. “And when he thinks he’s to blame for something.”

“Or someone _made_ him think he is to blame,” Rhodey says, eyes widening when Pepper’s expression grows only grimmer. Realization tugs at the corner of his mind, but he is not yet willing to give into it.

“Which is exactly what Rogers did.” Pepper’s voice contains poison at the mention of Steve’s name, the doubtless kind, ready to condemn.

“But that doesn’t even make sense. It’s ridiculous –” Rhodey protests, because someone has to, even while his mind is racing, trying to connect everything Tony and his surprise guests said over the past weeks to find evidence for Pepper’s theory. Absentmindedly, he adds, “Although that sheds some light on why Natasha would punch Steve.”

Pepper looks at him sharply, going very still for a moment. “And how would you have come to know that delectable piece of information?”

Rhodey knows her well enough to tread carefully now, but there is no way around the truth, so he says, “They are currently living at Tony’s.” Before he can explain, Pepper’s eyes narrow.

“They are what?” she asks, dangerously low.

“I know,” Rhodey says quickly, “they had some problems, but they’re trying to make up for it. They’re helping out, Tony’s doing better.”

He truly believes that, because Clint can cheer anyone up, while Natasha can handle any situation thrown at her. If Tony learned to listen to them, they could do him a world of good. He needs more people on his side other than Pepper and himself.

“They are helping?” Pepper glares at him, her mouth pursed. “James Rhodes, they are the very reason Tony is in this situation in the first place.”

“If Steve –”

“Not only Rogers,” she bites out, completely sure that what she is saying is true. “You’ve seen them together. Do you really think Rogers would have gotten in a hit if they had tried to keep him from it? Which means they had to have played along.”

“They said it’s sorted out,” Rhodey argues, although with little conviction in his voice. “And Tony looked comfortable with them.”

Tony is an actor, though. That he usually does not bother to hide when he is with them, does not mean that he cannot, or would not if he feels it is necessary. To his shame, Rhodey has to admit that he has been fooled before, that he wants to believe that Tony is all right to the point where he swallows any lies happily.

Adding to his misery, Pepper says, “And we all know that Tony is a great judge of what is healthy to bear and what is not.” She nods grimly, determination radiating from her, “I think this situation isn’t sorted until we’ve had our say.”

She is right, of course she is. If Tony had felt in any way wounded by Steve, Rhodey and Pepper would have stood with him no matter what. There is no doubt in his mind that Steve’s friends would do the same, even though they seem to have come around now, trying to make up for whatever initial response they had. Punching Rogers, however, does not add up to being actual friends. That is their part.

They look at each other, warring with the knowledge that their friend has been wronged and they have not noticed for too long a time. Instead of doing something about it, they let Tony withdraw back into the familiar circles of work and arguing with his father and keeping himself busy.

“So, how are we going to go about this?” Pepper asks, looking like she is too impatient to make a battle plan, but she would not have made it this far if she could not suppress her baser urges – like throttling annoying people.

“You want to deal with Rogers?” Rhodey offers. While he would love to have a word with the Captain, he knows that Pepper’s mere presence can be far more terrifying, especially since Rogers must be used to growling military types. “I’ve been meeting more often with Barton and Romanoff lately, they won’t expect me to come for them right now.”

Pepper smiles and raises her glass in salute. “With pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to the MCU's portrayal of of Pepper, I've always imagined her as truly terrifying if she wants to be, so let's add a dash of that.  
> Thank you for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this one, but I didn't have enough time to rewrite it to my satisfaction (cause I'm not sure I'll have time to post anything next week since I won't be home), so I thought you'd prefer to read what I've already got.   
> Anyway, thanks for your comments and kudos!

When Pepper’s caller ID flashes on his phone’s screen, Steve’s hand freezes in the air over it. Her calling does not bode well for him, especially not after weeks of silence. He has expected Tony’s friends to come for him much sooner than this, which can only mean that Tony kept what has happened from them. No matter whether that is due to misplaced loyalty or the simple desire to be done with him, this pains Steve. If anything, all this time that has passed without repercussions for him has made everything worse – and less likely to be resolved in their favour. Without a chance to properly apologize – his letter has, as expected, remained unanswered – and no confrontation either to help them clear the air, it feels like they are simply giving up.

Sighing quietly, Steve steels himself for the upcoming conversation, ready to take any sharp words Pepper will have for him. He deserves them, naturally, but he cannot help but think things might have been easier if it had been Rhodey coming after him. He suspects there is no talking to Pepper on a warpath.

“Yes,” he says after picking up, grimacing at how defeated he already sounds.

“Mr. Rogers,” Pepper greets, as crisp as she had that first time she called him, but much colder now. She does not sound like she is going to question him anymore but rather like she will skip right to the yelling.

“Ms. Potts,” Steve says rather hesitantly.

He wonders briefly how she has found out what has happened now. Has Tony finally caved? Or have Clint and Natasha stopped protecting him? They have left weeks ago, but he has no doubt that Pepper has only become aware of his mistakes. She is not the kind of person to sit idle while she could have already solved a problem. Steve has become that problem now, he is well aware of that.

Pepper is silent for a long minute, in which Steve squirms, searching feverishly for anything to say. What could he do, though, that would not make the situation worse? Most of his problems start with him acting without thought, with him rushing in. Waiting silently for her judgement might not be the smartest choice either, however.

“What can I do for you?” he asks when he cannot bear the stifling silence between them anymore. Everything has become too quiet so quickly. With only Bucky and him remaining here – and their relationship being somewhat strained too by recent events – Steve has nowhere to hide, no familiar loudness to drown himself in until he feels mostly normal again.

Pepper clicks her tongue. The sound hits him like well-aimed bullets, and he is glad she cannot see him flinch. “Here I thought you’d have something to say for yourself.”

Steve is well aware what she is trying to do. By inviting him to talk, she sets him up for having all his arguments countered and smashed. “I’m sorry,” he offers simply, because he honestly is, and because she is not interested in listening to him trying to justify his actions.

“Are you now?” she drawls and, for a moment, sounds painfully similar to Tony, enough so that he aches with longing.

He wants to ask how Tony is doing but bites his tongue to keep the words in. What right does he have to an answer to that?

Every word of that stupid article had pushed him closer to the abyss lurking constantly in the back of his mind, but instead of fighting, instead of trying to hold onto his senses, Steve had chosen to fling Tony down ahead of him, thinking maybe it would save him or at least buy him some time.

He cannot tell Pepper that. It is neither an excuse nor a real explanation, but simply how he is feeling.

“I handled that whole situation rather badly,” he says, feeling ready to burst with the need to laugh at himself. _Badly_ does not even begin to describe it, but he does not have a better word, does not have any words.

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Rogers,” Pepper cuts through him, not a hint of mercy in her tone, “You have apparently no idea what you’ve done and don’t feel guilty about it either.”

“I –”

He does not get any farther, because she interrupts him again, which, strangely enough, makes him feel better. The way Tony always talked about her, Pepper is the kind of person who can find a solution to any situation. Even if that would be to shut him out completely, Steve is glad that someone seems ready to put down some rules instead of talking vaguely about a future that could be possible but that no one actually believes in. He does not want things to end, but he does not know how to go forward. Right now, he is spinning madly in place, burying himself deeper and deeper in the same old circles of guilt and naïve wishes.

“Tell me,” Pepper demands, her words laced with the certainty that she is going to be obeyed. “Tell me what you think you did.”

“You don’t know?” Steve asks before he can stop himself. Clearly, she knows enough, even if it is not all the gory details. And how could she not. For a trained liar, Tony is surprisingly easy to read, if one cares to look closely enough.

“Oh, I’m just very interested in hearing you trying to justify for your actions.” Her words are sharp-edged and poised to cut. Steve does not duck away from that. All his life, he found an excuse for what he was doing, he always had a righteous cause to follow. He was never wrong. Only, it turns out, that is not quite the truth.

Steve bites his lips, wonders what sense there is rehashing his bad decisions. “I saw my friends being attacked,” he says tonelessly, “so I panicked and – I didn’t trust Tony.”

That is still the hardest part to admit. He did not trust the man he claimed to love. What does that say about him? How do they get back from that?

When he does not say anything more, he listens to Pepper breathe at the other end of the phone, counts the seconds until she loses her patience with him. She lasts surprisingly long.

“In what world would Tony ever hurt you?” Pepper finally bites out, somehow managing to sound both condemning and honestly surprised. “What went through that little brain of yours to suspect him of ruining something he thought was good?”

_Because that’s what I do, right?_ a nagging voice in Steve’s head says, one that sounds too much like Tony himself, _I ruin things_.

“Nothing, all right?” Steve snaps. He is too loud, but he desperately needs to shut down the part of his brain that is looking to place the blame on anyone but him. Absolving himself from this guilt will not actually solve anything. “Nothing went through my head,” he emphasizes, then adds, calmer, “other than the overwhelming need to get out of there and find my family, and yes, that means I didn’t consider Tony part of that in that moment, because Tony was my little bit of happiness away from everything else.”

When the meaning of his own words registers in his head, Steve falls abruptly silent. He was not unhappy before Tony. He had everything he needed. An opportunity to do what he wants with his life, art school, a home, his friends by his side. There was no need at all to take the first chance he got to slip on rose-coloured glasses so he would be able to stand looking at his life. He was content with what he had, he did not need to escape from that.

Meeting Tony was a blessing. It added to the good things in his life. He never thought of regarding his normal life and being with Tony as two separate entities. And yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and wishes he could stop. He is tired. Of running and of always staying in the same place. Swallowing, he tries again, “Listen -”

“No, you will listen to me now,” Pepper sounds angry, like she wants nothing more than to tear into him, but also like she is holding herself back, succeeding only thanks to the kind of self-discipline that lesser people will never accomplish.  “When we first talked, you told me you loved Tony. By the time we actually met, you’ve been telling him that freely. Was it a lie or have you simply stopped doing so?”

The breath knocked out of his lungs, Steve sits utterly motionless, thinking he might have misheard. He expected threats, not a dispute about his feelings.

“I love him,” he hurries to say, his voice hoarse, the words stumbling over each other due to the rush with which they want to get out. Taking a deep breath, he tries again. “I love Tony. I never stopped. I just – I panicked, and everything happened so fast, and I couldn’t hold onto what was real and then –”

His cheeks burning, Steve bites his tongue to stop rambling. What happened to him trying to not make things worse? To not appear like the crazed, damaged man he actually is?

Pepper seems to be taken aback, because she is silent for a long moment, although there is a different quality to it now, no less unforgiving but not as biting anymore.

“If you come near Tony again before you’ve sorted out your head, you and I are going to have a problem,” she then says, nearly causing Steve to groan. Everyone seems to be telling him that. How can he sort himself out though, when those feelings and the panic are not his own, when they were done to him? He never wanted to end up broken. “If you’re not serious about Tony, leave him alone and make it clear that you will.” After a short pause, she adds, sounding like she is swallowing poison, “And if you’re serious, give it your all. I will hold you responsible for Tony’s wellbeing.”

Steve’s grip around his phone tightens just so he can make sure that he is really holding it in his hand, that he is actually talking to Pepper Potts instead of making this conversation up in his hand. Did she really just say that she would let him come close to Tony again? Instantly, Steve feels out of his depth. If he had expected anyone to threaten him away forever, it is her.

“Don’t mistake this for my approval,” Pepper says sharply as if in answer to his thoughts. She sounds angry, although not all of that is directed at Steve. It is more of an all-encompassing thing, pushing against the world at large. “If it were up to me, I’d make you stay away from him completely. You might have done more harm than good.” She takes a deep breath, less to calm her thoughts but to gain time to find the right words to go forward. “But if Tony decides to give you another chance, for whatever ludicrous reason, you will only take him up on that if you know what you want.”

At that, Steve perks up. The way Pepper has put that makes it sound like she is not talking about some highly unlikely, hypothetical scenario but like she has already talked to Tony and bowed more or less to his wishes. The future appears almost within reach at that moment, and Steve can almost taste Tony’s name on his tongue.

The fact remains that they have not talked in weeks, that his friends have given no indication that Tony has ever asked about him or even showed a willingness to open up a dialogue between them again.

The need to ask Pepper about this, about how his chances are, becomes almost overwhelming, but she told him to listen and he is so desperate to not cut his ties completely that he complies, no matter that the pressure of the words is constricting his throat, cutting off his air.

“If either Rhodey or I detect any kind of uncertainty in you, or even the slightest bit of dishonesty, we will ruin you,” Pepper says strictly but with the kind of unholy glee colouring her voice that tells him she will enjoy tearing him apart. “Don’t think we won’t or can’t. You let everything fall for your best friend, we will do the same for ours.” A smile enters her voice, small but shattering in its finality. “The difference is, that we have a lot more power than you do. We can turn the whole world against you until everything you touch crumbles.”

There is not a single doubt in Steve’s mind that she means everything she just said. Even if he did not know who she is, what kind of influence she wields, he would be appropriately cowed by her decisiveness. She sounds like a woman who knows that the world will bend to her will if she puts her energy into it, and like she would like nothing more than to crucify him for touching her best friend.

“Are we understood?” Pepper asks, the kind of sweet steel underlying her tone that has shivers running through Steve. He decides that he does not want to see her angry, uninhibited.

He swallows, once, twice, tries to find words, _any_ words, anything to not keep making things worse – and fails. “I’m sorry,” he all but whispers, and closes his eyes so he does not have to see her reaction.

Pepper bristles, her displeasure filling his ear. “That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Yes or no, _Captain_ ,” she speaks his former title with so much derision that Steve flinches, “it’s not that hard.”

“Yes,” he croaks, shoulders hunched like the enormity of that word is loaded onto him, “I understand.”

It is not a promise, not a vow, not even an indication of what decision he will make. He understands, however, that Pepper is as determined to protect Tony as he will always look out for Bucky. He knows now, that he cannot keep going like this. It is not fair on any of them.

“I hope you do, Mr. Rogers,” Pepper says but sounds slightly wistful like she would not mind the chance to go to war against him. “Until then, try to refrain from making things worse.”

She does not give him a chance to answer, ending the conversation as abruptly as she began it, but Steve is glad for that. Words have not helped him to solve anything lately, although, truth be told, using his fists does not always end up well either.

He keeps sitting at his desks for a long time, the phone in hand and Pepper’s promise in his ears.

Tony must have talked to her, must have kept her from sending Steve to hell right away, because he has no doubts that she would have no mercy for him otherwise, just like he would not if someone attacked his family – perceived or real.

_Sort out your head_ , they said, all of them. He is beginning to think they do not mean that he should decide whether he wants Tony or not, but rather how he is planning on spending his life, how much power he wants his scars to have over himself. Maybe, he thinks, it is time to take Sam up on all those offers to set him up for therapy. Maybe taking care of his family is not enough to keep him whole and sane.

Pulling up his contacts, Steve finds Sam’s number with ease. He is glad he never put down the phone, thus giving him no excuse to push this away for later like he has done a thousand times before.

His friend picks up after the first ring, which is not unusual, because somehow everyone always expects them to be in trouble.

“Steve,” he says cheerfully, unlike everyone else Steve has been talking to lately. It brings a small smile to his face and, more importantly, fills him with hope.

“Sam,” he breathes, “I think I might need your help.”

 

* * *

 

Tony has become used to people being in his home. Natasha could act like nothing more than a shadow, but Clint is the kind of person begging to be noticed. In their own way, both of them worked wonders in keeping Tony upright and not giving into the urge to crumble.

Finding another pair of friends waiting in his home is a surprise, especially because they do not differ much at first glance. Rhodey sits on the couch like Clint usually does, although he is not wearing the same careless grin. Pepper’s hair is much lighter than Natasha’s, but her face moves into the same expression of disapproval.

Instantly, Tony is nervous, expecting another barrage of bad news, but he does not stop his approach, does not make a beeline for his liquor cabinet. Instead, he goes over to his favourite armchair, greets his friends with a smile that does not betray his worries, and asks, “I hope you didn’t send Nat and Clint for groceries, because Clint only ever brings junk food and I fear that Nat’s secret mission is to make me fat.”

Neither of his friends laugh, nor do they crack even a smile. Inwardly, Tony sighs. He does not know what he has done wrong now, but their stoic silence does not bode well for him.

“So,” Rhodey says slowly, leaning forward, “when were you going to tell us?”

It is not a good sign that he started the conversation, because Pepper does not look like she thinks the upcoming topic is inconsequential, and she usually prefers to be in charge of these arguments, only giving up control when she is too upset or certain that she will not be able to keep up a civil tone.

“Tell you what?” Tony asks, trying for innocence. There is always something he has done that garners his friend’s disapproval. With recent events, though, he has somewhat calmed down, too busy with his own issues to make problems for anyone else. They could have found out about what drove him back to New York, of course, in which case he had better turn and run.

“Where to begin?” Rhodey drawls, confirming Tony’s suspicions. “Maybe about why Steve exploded on you and threw you out. About Howard being the reason that article even exists in the first place. About Stane dealing with weapons and that likely tying in with him dying. About the real reason you finally decided to stop building weapons. And, of course, about you and Romanoff creating some kind of vigilante duo taking down weapon dealers on your own.” Rhodey leans back on the couch, his arms crossed in front of him as he stares Tony down. “Take your pick.”

It was never feasible to think Tony could keep all of this a secret from them – and it is a lot. Hearing it summarized like this, Tony wonders why he is even still sitting here, straight-shouldered and sober. Even one of these things would usually be enough to send him spiralling into a pit of misery and drunken despair. That he managed to hold himself together could be a sign that he is finally growing up. Many people have been waiting for maturity to take an interest in him, and he almost wants to ask them whether they truly want to blame him for not falling apart.

Instead, he ends up stammering, caught between wanting to apologize and downplaying the whole fiasco. “It’s not – I had it under control.”

Judging the way Pepper’s eyes narrow and her lips press tightly onto each other, she is quickly losing patience. Still, she lets Rhodey talk, which is not a show of restraint, as Tony slowly realizes, but her trying to get some answers before she tells him exactly what she thinks of Tony all but going behind their backs.

He feels a surge of irritation at that, because he is an adult, he _can_ deal with his own problems, even though he usually never protests against having them at his side.

“While I highly doubt that, that’s not why I’m upset,” Rhodey says reasonably but with a frown marring his forehead. “We’re your friends Tony. That means we’re here for you. We want to know about this stuff, and help you even if you happen to manage on your own.”

What they do not understand, Tony thinks, is that he did not keep them out of this because he did not trust them to help, but because he needed to deal with it himself, to show himself that he can. Everything else has been slipping out of his control, so he needed to try to regain some of that, without them guiding his hand.

“None of this was your mess,” Tony says for lack of a better explanation of his feelings.

All that manages to achieve, however, is to make Pepper flinch, but she uses the motion to take a step forward, not quite close enough to tower over Tony, but now he can see how upset she truly is. Despite the fact that he still thinks he has done the right thing, he feels the first seeds of guilt spread through him.

“It became our mess the moment you were involved,” Pepper says, somehow both sharp and pleading.

Tony, however, merely shakes his head. “Obadiah was my godfather and Steve was my boyfriend,” he explains briskly, unconsciously straightening his back further. “You had no part in any of that.”

For a brief moment, both his friends stare at him in aghast fascination, then Pepper pulls herself visibly together.

“Sometimes I think you’re practicing offending other people in front of the mirror,” she snaps, taking another step forward so that she comes to a halt next to Rhodey, leaning casually against the couch. It looks like she needs the contact, the closeness to Rhodey, to keep her posture. Much softer, she adds, “Tony, we’re family, the real kind. If I had a boyfriend who threw me out of his home over a misunderstanding, would you want me to go through that alone?”

She is being unfair. Tony is the kind of person that is stitched together by bad decisions, a never-ending sequence of problems, and a propensity to get into trouble wherever he goes. Taking care of him is a full-time job, and one he himself has rejected several times already, so he naturally does not want to load it all on his friends. He loves them too much to keep tearing them down. Also, a nagging voice in the back of his head adds, he just wants them to stop looking at him like this, with worry building up much quicker than joy, and resignation because they constantly expect something to go wrong where he is involved.

“Of course not, but that’s –” Tony tries to argue but realizes he has made a mistake before he comes even close to making his point.

Pepper whips forward, only held back by Rhodey’s hand on her arm, who predicted her reaction well enough to keep her from making things worse. “If you’re going to say that’s _different_ , then I’m going to punch something, and don’t think it won’t be you.”

With her cheeks burning and her hair escaping their band, Pepper looks beautiful, a fact that is not hindered in the least by her being furious with him.

“I’m a disaster,” Tony says quietly and opens his arms in front of him as if to create a bigger target for her. “You’ve said that enough times that even I get it. You deserve better than being dragged down into this.”

Rhodey tugs at Pepper’s arm and pulls her onto the couch next to him, both to help her calm down and to stop the situation from escalating. Instinctively, they lean into each other, which only hardens Tony’s opinion that it was right to keep them out of this. Otherwise they would have spent the past weeks in frantic disarray, trying to put his life back into its familiar tracks, even while Tony thinks it might be time for something new.

He is tired of being Howard Stark’s son. He has been repeatedly told he is not doing a good job of that anyway, so why should he hold onto that?

“Well, you’re _our_ disaster,” Rhodey says, voice filled with the same firmness he used the first time he told Tony they were friends at MIT. Tony has become better at believing him. “You deserve better too.”

Pushing down the urge to laugh, Tony shrugs. “It’s over now, anyway. Stane is dead and I haven’t talked with Steve for weeks.”

His own words feel like punches. The time and distance between them is constantly growing. With everything else that has been happening he could pretend to ignore that, but at times he gets a reminder like this and feels like he starts falling all over again.

“Do you truly think it’s over?” Pepper asks gently, her voice a stark contrast to the anger filling her only a minute ago.

“People usually don’t come back from the dead.” Tony is sure she was not talking about Stane, but thinking about Steve still hurts. He has not talked about Steve with Clint and Natasha, either, and he is glad they are not pushing the topic. He hopes he would not have let them into his home otherwise – he _is_ trying to learn how to deal with life in a healthier way, after all.

Pepper regards him with the same impatience she usually wears when she thinks he is being wilfully obtuse. “But you told me you weren’t over Steve. And from what I’ve heard, he’s not over you either.”

From what she has heard? Tony’s mind is reeling. It has been barely a week since his conversation with Pepper, and still she has done her magic and somehow gotten all the information he had not wanted her to find, additionally to apparently having talked to Steve or someone who is sure they know what the blonde wants.

Steve looked very much through him in Clint and Natasha’s living room where Tony got marked as the enemy. He knows all about spur-of-the-moment decisions, but he thinks Steve should better get clear about whether he wants to push Tony out or pull him in.

“We’ve manoeuvred ourselves into a dead end,” Tony says, trying for nonchalance even while he is aware that his friends will not believe it. “I’ve given him room and he’s sent me a letter, but he hasn’t asked for a meeting.”

The letter – Tony is not sure what to think about that. Steve sounded appropriately contrite and still in love. But. Each paragraph was filled with more emotion than Tony could hope to process, especially while he does not yet know what to do with his own feelings, which he has pushed unceremoniously into a dark corner of his mind for the time being. He could clearly recognize Steve’s desperation, but he is not sure he can handle that, or that he even should.

Pepper watches him closely, likely following his thoughts as easily as if he had said them out loud. It is sometimes scary how well she knows him. “Maybe that’s your step to make. If you want to,” she finally says, obviously reluctant.

She is not happy about the situation, and Tony is sure she would rather serve him Steve’s head on a silver platter than encourage him to try again, but that is the beauty of Pepper Potts. Even after all their years together, after countless of Tony-induced disasters, she still takes his feelings into account.

“What if I do?” he asks quietly, mostly because he has to.

His friends share a long glance, and even while Tony is usually miffed about them conspiring, he cannot deny that they truly have his best interest at heart. He is not sure how he managed it, but he found himself some real friends.

“I don’t know what you want us to tell you, Tones,” Rhodey finally says, his shoulders much more relaxed than at the beginning of their conversation. “I still want to tear Rogers a new one for hurting you. But I think you need to clear this situation up. Rationally speaking, it might be better to put this behind you, but you still have feelings, and while they might go away with time, you might always regret not talking to him again.”

All of which leads to Tony having to see Steve again before he can even attempt to make a final decision.

“Rhodey’s right,” Pepper speaks up before Tony can commit to anything or retreat forever. “You can make all the decisions you want, and I advise you to go into this with as clear a head as possible, but actually seeing him again will ruin all of that anyway.”

Laughter bubbles up Tony’s throat but he swallows it down. He is sure that seeing Steve will ruin a lot of things, his resolve, his anger, his steady progress. He _wants_ to nonetheless.

“I don’t know if I can,” Tony admits, sinking farther into the cushions of the armchair. With all the good memories, he also remembers the way Steve dismissed him with nothing but a sneer.

“Take all the time you need, Tones. This is not some race.” Rhodey grimaces, like he knows what he is going to say next will not be received well. “And if you don’t want to see him, don’t.”

Even Pepper rolls her eyes at that. They know Tony, know that he likes to make a mess of things but also that he does not take the easy way out.

“It sounds so simple when you put it like that.” Tony smiles without humour.

“It isn’t. Will never be,” Rhodey says, somehow full of confidence, “but you’re stronger than you think.”

Tony wants to laugh, to dismiss this as easily as he usually does, but he wants to believe Rhodey. He wants to be strong enough to weather this and come out on the other side intact.

“I – Thank you, I guess.”

For a moment, all three of them look at each other, secure in the knowledge that they are family, that they are not alone. Then something in Pepper’s posture changes, she sits straighter and her expression clears.

“Now, is the situation with Stane settled?” she asks, all business-like as if they have never had a tedious conversation about feelings. Despite the difficult nature of this topic, Tony is glad to move on. “Are we sure we don’t have another leak?”

“Pep, give him a break,” Rhodey interrupts her, slightly admonishing, but he knows as well as Tony does that he does not have a chance to stop her.

“Oh, no,” Pepper predictably says, a small smirk playing on her lips. “He’s decided to do all this on his own, even though I’m working for SI too. It’s high time I got involved.” With that she turns back to Tony and fixes him with a stern glare. “Does Howard know?”

Pepper takes over the discussion with her usual efficacy and Tony wonders briefly why he ever thought he could do this without her. Her sheer presence makes the situation seem less bleak. Although he is still glad he took Natasha up on her offer, since taking action is ultimately more satisfying than orchestrating for someone else to clean up his mess.

Still, it feels like a massive weight is lifted from his chest, enabling him to breathe easier again, just by having his two friends on his side, knowing what he kept from them for weeks. It is not that he regrets doing things his way, but it is always easier not to deal with everything alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, was it as horrible as I feel it is? It's missing a lot. Maybe I'll get around to fixing it this week .  
> Thanks for reading, nonetheless! Enjoy your weekend.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay! Life's been crazy the past weeks. But I'm going on vacation next week, so I'll have some time for writing.  
> Thank you for your comments. They make everything so much brighter.

It takes them a little over two months to weed out all the people involved in the weapons dealing that are in easy reach. Two months that Tony spends alternating between pouring all his energy into dozens of projects – green energy, communication, medical technology – and building a comfortable kind of friendship with Natasha and Clint. They moved into a guest suite in the tower after Rhodey all but threw them out, but it took Tony all of a week until the sudden silence in his home got too much and he returned to spending much of his free time with them. Something about the easy camaraderie draws him constantly in.

It also reminds him constantly of why he even knows them in the first place, of who introduced them. Steve’s absence hurts, even with how much the memory of their parting still stings too.

Every night, Tony reads the letter Steve sent. He has had his phone in hand a dozen times already, determined to give Steve an answer to the unspoken question lingering beneath the words, but he has always stopped himself, reminding himself that there is too much going on at the moment for him to make a sensible decision about something that left him so emotionally wrecked. He needs to keep his composure to not screw up his chance at turning Stark Resilient into something he can be proud of. His personal life just has to be placed back for the moment.

Still, the more time passes, the calmer he feels in regards to Steve. Nothing changed about the silly hopes he is harbouring, but he is not so desperate anymore. He does not depend on anyone’s goodwill and especially not on Steve’s love. That he would like to have it nonetheless is another matter.

It is up to him to reopen the dialogue between them, so one night he offers just that. Contrary to Steve, he does not wax poetry or compose physical evidence of the love he only admits to himself he still feels, but sends a simple text message, reading _I got your letter_ , before waiting for a response. Tony is not ready to forgive Steve, but he feels that they need to talk.

He thought he would be able to read something into how quickly and what Steve would answer, but when a whole day passes without anything to show for, all tactical thinking fails him and he spends a long, uncomfortable minute convinced that he is too late, that Steve went on without him. He is not sure how that makes him feel. There is disappointment, yes, and the tiniest bit relief at not having to get through the unavoidable confrontation of figuring out what they are to each other. Mostly, he spends the day hidden away in his workshop, his phone never out of his reach, while he deals with what he strongly suspects is loss.

Then he gets back a text reading _I still mean all of it_ , Tony is not sure whether that is not worse than silence. It tells him that Steve is still sorry and still loves him, but it also means that it is truly up to Tony to take the next step for them. He does not feel ready for that, not with everything else that is going on. He cannot even ask his friends for advice, because he knows what they are going to tell him, that they cannot take this decision from him.

With a heavy heart, they settle into a slightly uncomfortable routine of noncommittal texting, which has the advantage of them not falling out of contact but is also a daily reminder of what they had, rekindling the slightly misguided wish to have it again.

Natasha knows, of course, and Pepper at least suspects, because both of them regard him with those endlessly pitiful expressions sometimes that show him how painful it must be for them to watch Steve and him move in circles without ever getting anywhere.

Clint always seems like the type to remain oblivious to things like that, but it is ultimately him who corners Tony one evening, giving his best impression of nonchalance but picking at the callouses of his right hand. Tony wonders what it means that he can tell these people’s nervous habits – and contemplates how much it is going to hurt if they are going to disappear now that their immediate business is almost done.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Clint asks him cheerfully before Tony has even fully stepped into the guest suite. “Nat is cooking.” His smile is all teeth and his feet are never still.

Tony greets him but holds back a comment over how suspicious his behaviour is, especially since they have grown so comfortable with each other over the past months.

“What’s the occasion?” Tony asks as he is ushered into the kitchen. “Did I miss something?”

“Not at all,” Clint answers quickly and fails to reassure Tony. “Why? Can’t we treat our friend to some good food every once in a while?”

It is true that Natasha’s cooking is good. She even likes the time spent in the kitchen, but it is still rare that she does it, either leaving the job to Clint or living off takeout. Bucky is the cook in their group of friends, but Tony throws enough money at them to keep their fridge and bellies filled to stop himself from feeling guilty for keeping them from their friend’s home-cooked meals. They are helping him out, but he did not ask them to leave their home for him.

Natasha looks up from the stove as they come in, gesturing at the table with a smile too pointed to be entirely innocent.

“Relax, Antoshka,” she says and the nickname washes warmly over him. Still, Tony cannot help but feel tense. All of this has a sensation of finality to it.

He manages to remain sitting still for all of four minutes before he gives up. “All right, spill,” he says, staring at Clint because Natasha will never be guilt-tripped into telling him something she does not want to. “What’s going on?”

They share the kind of glance that does not bode well for him, the kind they use to both reassure each other and to fight out who will have to take on an uncomfortable task. Clint loses, of course he does.

He sits down across from Tony – who is tired and paranoid enough to hope that the table between them is not meant as a sign – and puts his hands on the wooden surface before him, fingers splayed like he needs to brace himself against something.

“Bucky wants to see you,” Clint then rushes to say, the words falling over each other, but Tony is alert enough to pick up the meaning easily. “We’re doing sort of a ‘Welcome Back to the Living’ party and he’s expressly invited you. Thought we could combine it with your ‘I’m A True Corporate Shark Now’ party.”

It is as threadbare an excuse as Tony has ever seen, because there is not only Bucky waiting for him but Steve too. Or, if he is not waiting, he will at least be there and Tony will have to face him, will finally make the decision he has been putting off for months now. He still cannot crush the last bit of stupid hope in his heart to maybe mend things with Steve, though, so he nods before he allows himself to really think about it.

Things have been going so well lately. _Stark Resilient_ has not yet crashed and he has more ideas than ever before. Even his meetings with Howard pass in a somewhat civil manner. He is not ready for another failure, but maybe he has just enough faith to give this a go.

“We told him not to get too excited,” Clint continues, looking at some point over Tony’s shoulders, “but we could at least meet up for a dinner beforehand and –”

“Shut up, Clint,” Natasha says lovingly, turning momentarily away from the stove to punch his shoulder, “he’s already said yes.”

“Wait, what?” Clint exclaims, jerking into a straight posture, staring at Tony in a mixture of suspicion and excitement. “You have?”

Despite the daunting prospect of seeing Steve again, Tony finds himself smiling. “I nodded,” he admits, slumping in his chair before he offers mischievously, “I can change my mind again.”

It takes Clint a second to react, probably to gauge the sincerity of Tony’s acquiescence, but then he smirks. “Please do,” he says magnanimously, “I had a whole speech prepared.”

Tony does not doubt for a moment that Clint has indeed planned to bury him under a barrage of words, half promises, half threats. He is good at that, needling people until they give in.

Even without the careful truce he has established with Steve, Tony likes to imagine he would have agreed to coming. If anything, he supposes he owes Clint and Natasha. It will be a nice gesture to bring them home, he would not let them fly commercial anyway, so why not accompany them on the trip, make up with Barnes, and consider this chapter finally done, for real this time, no matter how it ends.

Still, he has to ask, “Does Steve already know about this?”

Twice now they have stumbled into something without any clear knowledge of what to expect – and twice have they failed spectacularly. Tony is not sure what other surprises could be waiting for them, but he also knows that misery always finds a way. It is his task now to try and believe that happiness does too.

“You leave Steve to us,” Natasha says, strangely miffed. Tony never wanted to be the reason for trouble between them, but he is almost mollified by it nonetheless. For weeks now they have been by his side and without running back to their old life. That has to mean something. “Just make sure you’re ready to see him again.”

Tony laughs quietly. He is not sure he will ever be ready for that, no matter what he tells himself, no matter what he _wants_.

“You don’t need to threaten him or anything, Nat,” he admonishes her. He needs to know that Steve is as willing to work for this as he is, without outward influence. “We’re – we’ll have to be okay with whatever happens.”

He is not at all sure if he can do that. Even now, with his life improving every day, with Stark Resilient growing, with him standing up for himself, Tony feels like he is missing something. Whether that is Steve or simply and end to the whole matter remains to be seen.

“We’re not trying to pressure you into something here,” Clint says, sounding slightly uncertain, and Tony nods at him in reassurance.

No, he thinks, they are all tired of this annoying limbo they have found themselves in. He believes them. “Waiting for any longer will not do us any good,” he says, wondering how he can sound so calm even while nervousness begins to rear its ugly head inside his chest. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

He just hopes that fate does not take that as a challenge to prove him wrong.

 

* * *

 

Steve stares down at the paper in front of him, unable to tear his eyes away. He has always been prone to doodle on every available surface whenever he lets his mind wander, but lately that has not brought him much peace, because, just like once before, he can only draw Tony. Only now it is not pictures made by a love-sick fool anymore but born by guilt. Steve cannot let go of the way Tony looked at him when he was left behind in this very room without any feasible explanation, without having done anything wrong. It is the same expression Bucky sometimes wears after particularly bad nightmares, when he thinks that, next time, Steve will not come for him.

Steve has tasted grief and betrayal before, the utter helplessness of being at fate’s mercy, he is just not used to not being on the receiving end of this but dishing out the pain himself.

“What am I even doing?” he whispers but gets no answer. The Tony on the paper in front of him is as silent as his real counterpart in New York. They have been talking via texts, yes, but that feels more like polite conversation between strangers. He should be glad to have that, at least, but he remembers how vibrant Tony has been, how alive – and how dull his life is now, after he has had a taste of how it could be.

All of his friends have become somewhat distant with him. Steve thinks it should probably hurt more to suddenly lose their support like that, to have them give him the cold shoulder, only he knows that they are right. He is also certain that, if he had a real problem, they would come back to his side immediately, despite their current argument. Which is exactly what he has not done for Tony. The more he thinks about that, the worse he feels.

It feels as if all his chances are flying past him, more so with each day that passes without a concrete step in any direction. Whenever Steve turns on the TV or actually talks to his friends, he gets more evidence that Tony is going on with his life. It is not like last time either; he does not party and drown himself in alcohol and work and mindless sex. His eyes do not look so desperate, not like he is missing someone. Instead, there are press conferences about Stark Resilient that Steve cannot ignore, because he is so very happy for Tony and – dare he say – even proud of him for finally following his dreams.

Dealing with his friends’ absence is worse. Clint and Natasha have taken over what should have been his role in helping Tony back on his feet after Stane’s betrayal. Bucky, too, seems to be more involved in the whole matter than Steve.

It appears that everyone is busy building, while he is still thoroughly occupied by keeping himself from crumbling completely, due to losses he caused himself. Therapy helps, although he is still hesitant to admit that, clinging to some misguided sense of pride. He always managed to keep going, functioning, put one foot in front of the other as long as he had someone else’s well-being to take care of. He knows how to help his friends, but without them, he has always been at a loss at what to do with himself.

“Steve,” Bucky calls and sticks his head into Steve’s room moments later, “are you moping again?”

This time around, Bucky shows much less sympathy for Steve’s plight. Sometimes he even looks like he would rather be with everyone else in New York, and Steve is not sure whether his staying is actually for his sake or just because Bucky cannot afford to miss any more classes.

“I’m not,” Steve protests, although without much heat. He is not sure what he is doing, other than that he is not well, still scrambling for a way to make up with Tony even while thinking he might not deserve it.

“I believe that when I see it.” Bucky rolls his eyes, leaning against the door frame. “But guess what. Nat, in her eternal wisdom, has decided to give you another chance.” Here he pauses, either to gauge Steve’s reaction or simply because he can, increasing the drama.

At that, Steve turns fully around to face his friend. “What are you talking about?”

Mustering him for a long moment, Bucky clicks his tongue. “They’re coming home,” he then says, causing Steve’s heartbeat to spike immediately because up until now he had no doubts that Clint and Natasha would come back, even if it took them a while, but the way Bucky says it, it sounds like they might have simply stayed away. Due to the blood rushing in his ears, Steve almost misses Bucky’s next words. “They’re bringing Tony with them.”

Steve’s throat constricts, leaving no way for air to fill his lungs or words to come out, so all he can do is stare at Bucky in silence, uncomprehending. Tony is coming here? But he is not ready, he does not know what to say, how to make up for what he did, how to look Tony in the eyes and accept whatever he is going to find there. His friends have had weeks to come to terms with it, but he has not.

“What?” he finally stammers, “How?”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes that could be sympathy or pity. More important is that he does not move from his position barely one step into Steve’s room, remaining at a safe distance as if he does not want to be drawn into the chaos of Steve’s mind.

“I don’t know. But Nat’s always been a miracle worker,” Bucky says, shrugging before he gets serious again. “You’ve got a week to make a plan.”

Steve is certain he knows his priorities now, but he still has no idea how to go about it, how to keep himself from making matters worse.

“Bucky, what –” he pleads but is cut off.

“Nope, Stevie,” Bucky says, not apologetic but at least not smug either. “This one’s on you. Nat’s just reminded me that things don’t always end well just because you mean well. I pushed you into this once before.” Smirking slightly, he corrects himself, “Twice, actually, if you count voting for Tony’s horrible plot to fool his parents. I’m not doing that again.” Straightening from his slouching position, Bucky meets Steve’s eyes head on. “If you want Tony, you’ll get him yourself.”

With that, he seems ready to leave Steve to his own misery, but stops willingly when Steve calls out for him. “I don’t know whether I can do this, Buck.”

Along with this confession, several pounds of weight seem to fall off Steve’s chest. He does not actually feel relieved, but he thinks putting the words out there is a first step.

Bucky, however, does not show himself impressed by Steve’s courage. “Either you’ll find out quickly, or you tell Tony,” he says, completely unrelenting. “He deserves better than to be toyed with.”

“I know,” Steve answers tonelessly. He does know, and he wants to make things right.

Bucky nods at him, both earnest and encouraging. “Then act like it.”

Sinking back into his feverishly racing mind, Steve does not notice Bucky leaving, but his friend has made it clear anyway that Steve has to solve this problem on his own. He has had weeks already to come to terms with this, to decide on a plan of action. Still, to find out that, only another week from now, Tony will be within reach again, makes new chaos rise inside of him.

He also feels excitement fluttering to life in his chest, battling against the guilt and fear, because he has, not so long ago, looked at Tony on his TV screen and thought him lost to him, read Tony’s messages and felt like conversing with a stranger. Before that, however, he thought that, as long as they were together, everything would turn out well.

Staring down at the drawing of Tony in front of him, the dark eyes and shocked expression, Steve vows that, if Tony is up to it, he will give his all to make sure that they can get past this. They were good together, once. Steve is sure that, even with letting reality in, they can be that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things are looking up now and Steve's suffering is coming to an end.  
> Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a comment!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and non-arguments ;-)  
> Here comes the moment we've been waiting for: our boys are talking!  
> Enjoy!

 

Tony feels strangely safe in Clint and Natasha’s apartment, despite the fact that the last time he was here is not actually one he likes to remember. It is undeniably theirs, though, which does a lot to endear it to him. One of Clint’s bows leans against the wall behind the couch, several books in Russian are scattered through the whole place. It is small but cosy, and Clint brightens every room he steps into just by wearing his grin, while Tony has come to connect Natasha’s prowling presence with being protected.

He is almost hesitant to break up the harmony by facing Steve and Bucky again, but he has promised them and himself to put an end to this.

Despite asking them not to meddle, Tony has no doubt that it is Natasha’s doing when the doorbell rings when neither she nor Clint are at home and Tony opens the door only to have Steve looking back at him, eyes red-rimmed and lips bitten bloody. The sight feels like a sudden punch to the stomach, and not only because Steve looks close to having a nervous breakdown himself. Maybe Natasha has ignored Tony’s wishes and threatened Steve into talking things through with Tony, after all. In any case, he does not look very happy about being here. Tony is not either, not like this.

One glimpse and all the progress he has made vanishes like he has never even begun to heal. His heart is broken again and his mind cowed by the memory of Steve’s anger. Wishful thinking, he realizes, has never had any place here. Still, Tony is overcome by the suffocating urge to reach out and bury himself in Steve’s arms, to feel their skin touch and their heartbeats intermingle. Instead, he takes a step back, unable to bear the weight of these contradicting feelings.

Steve looks taller, even with his shoulders hunched and his forehead creased into a perpetual frown. His eyes weigh heavy on Tony but not entirely uncomfortably so.

“Clint and Nat aren’t here,” Tony says, wondering how his lips manage to form words other than incoherent pleading. “I’ll tell them you stopped by.”

_Tell me you are here for me_ , a voice says in Tony’s head, even while he thinks he is not ready for this at all. How can Steve’s mere presence still have such an effect on him, after months of absolute distance between them?

Tony has grown so much since then. He has dealt with betrayal without falling into the numbing habit of drinking too much. He has stood up to his father and took control of what he wants to do with his brain. He even managed to make two more friends, although it remains to be seen how long that holds, depending on how this evening ends.

Considering that, he can surely be mature and get through this meeting, he can put on a smile and hear what Steve has to say, he can take whatever happens and rebuild himself afterwards.

“I know,” Steve sounds like he has not talked in weeks, or like his throat is just as dry as Tony’s. “I’m here for you.”

A bitter smile tugs at Tony’s lips because he can imagine a dozen nicer ways this could be said. This hollow thing, however, makes it seem like Steve does not actually want to be here, like all the emotions he has poured into his letter have left him the moment he put down the words.

“Nat doesn’t have to be right all the time,” Tony says, softer than he has thought himself capable of, especially with how ragged he feels inside. “I’ll tell her we talked and that it didn’t work out.” Almost reluctantly, he adds, “She promised me she would back off if I want out.”

It is hard, but Tony feels like he is doing Steve a favour here. Steve truly looks like he does not want to be here, like he wants to turn around and run, to have this whole pitiful episode already over and done with. He straightens his back, though, and looks ready to face this like a battle. Tony is tired of fighting, however, and takes a step back, farther into the flat, far enough that he can close the door easily if he has to. One small motion and all the terrifying options they have from here on out – good and bad both – will be cut out, ended before they have a chance to wreak more havoc.

“Do you?” Steve startles him by speaking again. Somehow, Tony has thought he would already be gone, grateful to be given an easy way out. “I mean, do you want to leave?”

“No,” Tony says quietly. This might not be the kindest answer, but it is the truth. He does not want to go, and he does not want to leave Steve behind and this thing they could have had. But he is done pushing this into a shape it was never meant to be. If Steve is not up to it, if either of them has the slightest doubt, he will back out. If that is the most commitment he can do, he will not screw that up.

“May I come in?” Steve asks, not quite showing what he thinks about Tony’s answer. Or maybe Tony is simply afraid to look.

Natasha seems so sure that Steve would jump at this chance to mend things, and Clint and Bucky were unwilling to give up either. Even Pepper and Rhodey did not make him swear off this terrible endeavour. It gives Tony hope, but a relationship cannot be built on other people’s aspirations. They ultimately need to take the necessary steps on their own, or nothing will come of it. Again.

Tony watches him for a moment longer, taking in every line on Steve’s face and the way his lower lip twitches like he is going to begin worrying it again any second now. Since refusal is not an actual option, not if he wants to finally settle his conflicting emotions, Tony nods shortly and opens the door farther before turning around.

They walk into the flat in silence, neither knowing how to cross this distance of their own making. Tony does not feel like sitting down, somehow resenting the domesticity of it while he still waits for the storm to smash them into smithereens, so he walks past the couch and leans against the window sill. Steve remains standing, too, although he does not even attempt to appear relaxed but stands in the middle of the room like he expects he needs to bolt any moment now.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and those words at least roll off his tongue smoothly, although not like he is comfortable with them but like he has simply said them too often already.

“That’s not actually helpful,” Tony scoffs and, unable to help himself, crosses his arms in front of himself. “If you were _not_ sorry, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

At least Tony hopes he would be strong enough to turn Steve away the moment he feels the blonde is being insincere.

“I know,” Steve agrees, sounding actually contrite. “It’s just, I need to – I am truly –”

“Stop it,” Tony whispers, then repeats it louder. This, all of a sudden, is too much. Anger spreads through him like an old friend, as soothing as it is putting all his nerve endings on high alert, almost painfully so. “You don’t get to come in here and say you’re sorry, expecting that to make everything all right again.”

It is unbelievably liberating to snap at Steve, blazing eyes fixed on his hunched form. Instantly he feels more alive than he has since being confronted with the prospect of seeing Steve again.

“What do you even want from me?” he continues, truly wondering. “I don’t understand you. One moment you tell me you love me and that I shouldn’t listen to anyone saying I’m not a good person, but as soon as some shit happens that I had nothing to do with, that I had no realistic reason to be involved in, you don’t even let me explain myself.”

That is what he is most upset about. Not that Steve suspected he somehow had his hand in that article happening, not that he thought it would be some kind of sport to Tony. No, Steve pushed him away without giving him even the chance to talk, either to tell his side of the story, or to find out why Steve was that upset. They went from lovers to strangers in under a minute, and Tony is not sure he can ever forget that.

“Bucky needed my help,” Steve says with familiar stubbornness, although there is something reluctant about his tone. “But I know now –”

“Not when we were first reading that article,” Tony cuts him off, not bothering to listen to the rest of what Steve is trying to say. “Bucky was at work, and you were with me. You couldn’t have known whether he had even seen it already.” A short bout of laughter bursts over his lips as he sees Steve grimacing, although Tony could not say whether it is in denial or acquiescence. “But this is about so much more than the article. I barely even remember it with everything that’s been happening.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

Tony blinks in irritation but decides to let the continued use of apologies slip for now. “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?” he asks, deceptively calm, even while he feels his walls crumbling. “Because there’s a difference. I need to know whether you will always choose your friends over me. Or is it just Bucky?”

Steve’s face turns conflicted and he takes a step forward, almost looks like he is going to reach for Tony, but there is a whole room between them and so many invisible barriers too that Tony barely pays it attention.

“You have your trauma, I get that,” he continues, not wanting to sound dismissive of that but feeling some of his impatience shine through nonetheless, “but you exploded at me for nothing, and still I immediately tried to help you, to find out who the leak was so I could keep this from happening again.” Chuckling, Tony shrugs. Throwing himself into that has been as much eagerness to right the situation, even though he did not know how exactly it had gone wrong, as well as the need to bury himself in something he could understand.

“And then I found out about Obie –” Tony’s voice breaks, and he is irritated at himself for being unable to say his godfather’s name without cracking, even months after his death. “It felt like my whole world was falling apart in a manner of minutes, the few constants I was holding onto crumbling just like that. Stane was more of a father to me than Howard ever was.”

He has always latched onto kindness, every last scrap he could find, desperate to believe it is honest. His father wanted him to become harder but he turned out brittle instead.

“And you had just left me, revealing you had just been lying to me too, and still I came to you. I cannot even say that it was a conscious decision. I was hurt and you made me feel safe before, despite what you just did, that you had just locked me out completely.” Tony smiles hollowly, shakes his head like this is something that happened to someone else, like the weight of it is not still lodged firmly behind his sternum. “That’s not healthy. Rhodey and Pepper have been telling me for years that’s what I’m always doing, trusting people who are not good for me, but I thought you’d be different. I thought you’d trust me back, at least a little bit. Enough to not expect the worst of me.”

Tony trails off momentarily, looking at Steve without actually seeing him, certain that he will be incapable of bearing whatever expression he would find on Steve’s face. He had been truly hopeful about this relationship in the beginning. More than that, being with Steve meant getting involved with this group of people that knows all about breaking but who decided to go on living nonetheless, not matter that this road is a rocky one at times. It turns out that this, too, was just a fantasy, but Tony is just so tired of feeling fragile and being treated like it.

“I can’t keep loving someone who leaves at the first sign of trouble,” he says, wishing he could hurl his bitterness at Steve instead of wrapping it up inside. “Because let’s face it, I’m Tony fucking Stark. There will be a lot of trouble.”

With that, all of Tony’s rage is spent. His shoulders slump and his legs threaten to buckle, so he gives up the pretence of standing up to Steve and stumbles the few steps towards the couch to sit down. He wants to close his eyes and pretend that this is already over, one way or the other, that he is back in his workshop, drinking motor oil-infused coffee and building new things instead of holding onto old ones.

“Because I still love you very much,” Tony adds softly, cursing himself for letting the words be heard at all, but all his defences are down. “And it’s just unfair that I’m always falling for people who cannot love me back just as much.”

What follows is a silence, weaving in between the echo of Tony’s words, holding them between the two men so that there is no escaping. Tony expects denial or regret or any of a thousand different reactions. Instead, Steve finally walks forward with surprisingly heavy steps and sits down at the other end of the couch, careful to leave enough room between them for Tony not to feel crowded. Still, Tony pulls his legs up to his chest, gives himself something to hold onto.

“But I do,” Steve says, almost gently if not for the desperate edge in his voice.

“Do you really?” Tony snaps, flashing his teeth in what could be a grin or a threat. “So what, you’re telling me I’m not going to end up as your whipping boy again the next time something sets you off and everything is fine?”

Not rising to the bait, Steve runs a hand through his hair, which is as much a nervous gesture as a prayer for the right words to come to him. “I’ve been working on that,” he finally says, and Tony sags in disappointment.

“That’s not actually the answer I wanted to hear,” he says, reeling. It is not exactly that he has expected an easy solution to this, or any solution at all if he is honest with himself, but they have had months to _work on it_.

“Let me try to explain, please?” Steve glances at him sharply, but there is no bite to the question. Tony winces nonetheless.

He guesses he owes it to Steve to let him talk without interruption at least. Otherwise neither of them might ever get answers. So he nods briskly and waits, impatiently while hoping at the same time that Steve will never begin speaking. Maybe not knowing will be easier after all.

“I’m actually not quite sure what you want me to tell you,” Steve finally says after a long pause. He sounds both frustrated and the tiniest bit amused, like he has been expecting that they will be caught at this point, but for all his foresight he could not navigate them around it or even find an appropriate response. “You don’t want to hear how sorry I am, and I understand that. I wish I could promise you. I would mean it. I would never want to break it. But –”

With a shrug, Steve falls silent but only for a moment. Then he turns towards Tony and opens his arms making himself a target for whatever judgement Tony might send his way.

“You say you’re trouble, but look at me. I’m a mess.” Steve pulls his lips into something like a sneer, which has Tony aching because that does not belong on Steve’s face, especially not while he is talking about himself. “Things were easy back in Vegas and even New York, because neither of us was scraping much beneath the surface. I was so sure I could be someone new, someone undamaged, and then –”

Tony has no problems understanding that, because trying to outrun himself is a feeling he knows intimately, so he takes over easily when Steve trails off. “Reality came knocking.”

“Yes.” Steve nods, sounding relieved that Tony seems to get it immediately. “In all its ugly glory.” He stares across the room at a picture of himself and his friends, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, smiling blindingly. “I was wrong.”

“No shit,” Tony snorts, following his gaze and wondering how exactly the past slipped so easily through their fingers.

“I mean it, Tony. I was completely out of my mind and I didn’t trust you,” Steve admits uneasily, hands playing with the hem of his shirt in a way that Tony knows all too well. “But that’s not your fault but mine. I was so afraid of you getting to know me and deciding I’ve got too much baggage, so I pretended everything’s all right.” How easy that had been, to smile at Tony, to keep the nightmares at bay by simply lying in Tony’s arms. “But when that illusion fell apart, I couldn’t trust you because I’ve never given you the chance to actually see me, to see whether you might understand those parts of me.” Steve glances at Tony, a bitter twist to his lips. “I simply assumed.”

This sounds enough like a confession that Tony does not give into the urge to sneer at it. They all have their own version of the truth. “What would you need to hide?” he asks nonetheless, unable to hide the incredulity creeping into his tone. “You’re a good person. Even if I hadn’t seen that within minutes of meeting you, everybody says so.”

Despite their history, Tony still believes that. Steve _is_ good. Maybe not to or for him. Maybe not all the time. He is one of the rare people, though, who keep trying.

“I’m damaged goods,” Steve argues quietly, and this time Tony cannot hold back his laughter, although it comes out garbled, ugly.

“So what?” Tony snaps, unconsciously leaning farther back, pressing into the cushions behind him as if he could hide away. “I’m damaged too. I’m a horrible person. I know that Bucky made you research me.”

A hundred arguments seem to flitter over Steve’s face, but Tony is glad when he does not say any of them. He does not need anyone to try and convince him that his youthful follies do not count in the grand scheme of things. Tony knows who he is, and who he is trying to be.

“You’re much better than you are portrayed, though. I, on the other hand, am much worse,” Steve finally says and shrugs, “of course I was afraid of you finding out about that.”

It feels like they are at an impasse, not quite strangers anymore but not exactly close to each other either. Trying to accept their respective points of view is much harder to swallow than Tony would have thought. As much as he had hoped for them to be able to talk this through, to realize that this is something they can overcome, mostly because neither of them wanted this to happen, he feels inexplicably cheated now. They could have spared each other so much heartbreak if only Steve would have been amenable to giving Tony the benefit of the doubt and if Tony had not expected to be the only one with problems.

Steve sighs quietly. “I think what I wanted with you was a new beginning, a clean slate. It’s just always surprising to realize you can’t run from the past.”

If nothing else, Tony can relate to that. He has done a lot of things he is not proud of, and while he is trying to better himself, there is no outrunning who he was, no escaping old demons.

Their eyes meet and understanding passes between them. It is not enough for forgiveness, but it is a beginning.

“I’ve started getting therapy,” Steve admits suddenly, startling Tony, who has expected anything but that. “One of the first things they told me is that I can’t control this the way I want to. I can work on getting better and I can set myself goals, but up until now I’ve been denying that there is something wrong in the first place, that I’m damaged, so it was so very easy for the panic to tear me down.” Steve is staring down at his hands. They are not clenched, but Tony can see the restlessness inhabiting each of the slender fingers, recognizing it as familiar.

“I’m working on it, on acknowledging what’s wrong and how to deal with it. I can tell you that I love you and that I didn’t want to hurt you and never want to do it again.” Cocking his head to the side, Steve glances at Tony. “But I can’t promise you that it will be all smooth sailing from here on.”

The way Tony sees it, they are both just admitting that there will be more problems coming for them in the future, which is not actually reassuring. But is there not a saying about honesty beings its own reward?

“Burying myself in Bucky’s problems is easy, you know,” Steve continues in an almost conversational tone. “When we came back, we had no one but each other. Even before that, we were inseparable. He’s had it much worse than I did, and he still managed to cope better. He’s reclaimed his life much earlier, until it was suddenly me clinging to him to be saved instead of the other way around.”

In a way, that is easy to imagine. It does not take a genius to realize that Steve needs someone to take care of, someone he needs to scrounge his energy up for. Even while Clint and Natasha have avoided bringing up Steve in their conversation for the past months, he has been lingering in the back of every story, every activity, being an irreplaceable part of their lives.

“What I did is unforgiveable,” Steve says, voice growing suddenly hard, “and I don’t want to blame it on PTSD or whatever fancy name they are giving it these days, because for the longest time I didn’t even acknowledge its existence. But there _is_ something wrong and I’m trying to take back control from it, to live my life the way I want to. You deserve better, so much better, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’d give a lot to take it back, to get another chance.”

With that, Steve falls silent, his hands fidgeting in his lap, and it takes him visible effort to look Tony in the eyes – but he does and it might be this that helps Tony make his decision.

“That’s it?” Tony asks shortly, although his tone is not disparaging. He is simply asking for confirmation that Steve has said what he needed to say. People should do that more often, allow each other to speak until they are done. “You can’t promise me that it won’t happen again, but you’ll try to do better?”

He feels like laughing, although it is not quite bitterness coating the back of his tongue. Curiosity, maybe, a hint of opportunity. 

“Yes,” Steve breathes, his shoulders slumping as if that confession has taken all strength out of him. “I still love you too, and I’m so damned afraid of that,” he then says, causing Tony to flinch due to the unexpectedness of it.

Unable to tear his gaze away, he sees Steve burying his face in his hands for a moment, appearing as defeated as Tony feels. Then their eyes meet, and emotion hits Tony with the same intensity as it did before this unfortunate incident. He realizes then that he can try to fool himself all he likes, but Steve is not someone he will be able to let go of easily, not even if it might be better for the both of them. Still, he struggles to give into that feeling.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath and glares at Steve. “We compare how fucked up we are and stride cheerfully into our happily ever after? That’s not how this works.” With only a little strain, Tony can summon his anger back to the surface again, to allow himself to look at this with a clearer head.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” is all Steve says, shoulders slumping as he is shrouded by an air of defeat.

“Not good enough, Rogers,” Tony snarls. He is so sick of apologies. Why can he not find a place for himself where they are not needed, where not everything hurts? “You went from supposedly loving me to hating me in two seconds flat. I can’t deal with that.”

“Not supposedly,” Steve hurries to say, although he looks wary, preparing himself for defeat. “I do love you. That’s what made it hurt worse.”

“What hurt?” Tony asks, dangerously low. “What you accused me of but what I didn’t do?” He wants to stand up, to go on the offence and tower over Steve like he towered over Howard and Stane. This is no less personal but he cannot seem to move other than to curl farther in on himself.

“No, Tony.” Steve reaches out as if to take Tony’s hand, but goes still when Tony shifts unsubtly to evade him. “Not being able to trust you hurt. Watching everything we were going to build fall apart hurt.” He rubs the darkened skin under his eyes as if this tiredness weighing them both down is something easily erased. “I have never apologized for that in person. The letter doesn’t count. Objectively I knew the whole time that I was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself because panic overwhelmed me and erased all rationality. I’m sorry for what I said and how I behaved. More than that, I’m sorry for even thinking you’d go behind my back like that, especially since there’s no logical reason why you should. Logic didn’t have anything to do with it. I was afraid.”

Steve chuckles bitterly, then clenches his jaw to cut off the sound. When he looks up at Tony, his eyes are wide open, and so honest that even Tony’s ingrained cynicism cannot take it for anything but the truth.

“I’m still afraid, but my fear has shifted now,” he says quietly, never once looking away, “I don’t want to lose you. I’ll back off if you need me to, but if you want to try again, if you think you could take me back, I’ll do anything for it.”

Silence engulfs them, but it does not feel absolute, does not taste of loneliness. Tony swallows against the dryness of his throat and wonders what to do. His brain and his heart had different reasons for coming here; one wanted to put an end to the uncertainty, the other wanted to regain something that felt wonderful before it shattered. It is not a question which part of him will win here. For all his intellect and his pretended callousness, Tony is a man of the heart.

“All right,” Tony nods but trails off, not sure whether he should really go forward with that acknowledgment. “What does that mean for us?” He tightens the hold around his legs, if only because he does not want to chance his hands reaching out for Steve without permission. Already, it is far too easy to say _us_ again. 

“I love you,” Steve repeats firmly, not like he needs to convince himself of it but like he knows it as fact.

Tony cannot let them run headfirst into ruin again, not when they are both still in pieces, so he slowly uncurls from his protective position, ignoring the way Steve’s eyes light up with hope. His heart screams at him to not give up, while his head wails to not let himself get hurt this easily again. He wants to stay, wants to take Steve’s hand in his and –

“We should think about what we want,” he says carefully, keeping his tone light as to not convey a rejection where he does not think he is capable of one. He also does not echo Steve’s sentiment, not with words or gestures. It is bad enough he let it slip earlier. Love declarations will not help them choose their next steps rationally.

Steve leans forward, frowning slightly but altogether too eager. “I know what I –”

Tony silences him with a raised hand. “I’m sure you think you do,” he answers tiredly and gets to his feet, glad when Steve remains sitting. “Let’s call a truce,” he offers, “we won’t ever have a clean slate, but let’s leave it at that for now.”

It is painfully obvious that Steve wants to protest, but Tony does not have to do anything for him to close his mouth again, to swallow his words and stew them over until he is sure he wants to say them. He either sees the necessity of what Tony is saying, or he was being honest about giving Tony space if needed.

His feet feel heavy, almost rooting him in place, but they obey when Tony directs them past the couch. Steve’s eyes never leave him.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow.” Tony has never been good with goodbyes – because people usually take that decision from him – but he is careful to not make his words sound like one.

“We – You’re not going to –” Steve stammers and trails off, his expression confused.

Tony takes him in, the blue eyes he is ready to fall into again, the blond hair standing every which way because Steve has run his hands through it so often, the slumped shoulders, the bouncing leg. It would be easy to cross the distance between them, to lie to themselves and say that everything will be all right, but they have a long way to go until they make it there, and they still need to choose to begin that journey.

“I’m not saying that we must have come to a decision by tomorrow,” Tony says, aiming for a reassuring tone, even if that is not the answer Steve wants to hear, “but our friends are throwing a party, no matter that this is a horribly threadbare excuse to get us talking again, so we’ll see each other and we’ll be civil no matter which way we’re leaning.”

Familiar stubbornness takes over Steve’s face, but Tony is not yet ready to regard that fondly. “I know how I’m going to decide already.”

Tony sighs but makes sure to smile, even if it turns out rather self-deprecating. “I happen to think I know it too. That does not necessarily mean it’s the right decision.”

With that, Tony turns towards the kitchen, knowing that he will never have the strength to turn his back on Steve if he does not leave right now. It is still the right thing to do. Everything they have done up until now has been rushed and not thought through. Tony happens to believe in love at first glance, even in love at first drunk marriage. Love, though, is not a guarantee for things turning out all right. Who would know that better than him?

“See you tomorrow, Steve.” It is a promise, and when Steve does not come after him, Tony knows that it is received as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope this first part of their possible reconciliation lives up to your expectations. Let me know what you think!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! I'm in a very good mood, although I'm rather nervous about this chapter. But I'm on vacation, it's warm and raining outside, I've got the see right outside the door, and I'm not thinking about having to go back to work next week.  
> All is well, so to speak. Thank you for your comments! And now, enjoy!

Tony cannot sleep. His skin tingles at the memory of Steve having been close enough to touch, and his heart aches with undecided relief. He is restless. Unconsciously or not, he has dreamt for weeks now to be back here, to look at Steve and get rid of his anger and hurt and maybe talk about love, to get another chance. They are not there yet, and still this feels too easy.

He still means everything he told Steve on Clint and Natasha’s couch, he still hates him for leaving and loves him for coming back, loves him for so much more too. And yet.

Regarding the ease with which Steve has turned his back on him and then his easy conviction that they can make it work again, even if they are still the same people with all the same problems following at their heels, it feels dishonest. Maybe they needed this shock, the pain of separating again, to realize what they would be missing, but love is not supposed to be like that.

How can Tony ever look at Steve again and not wait for his expression to close off? How can he not treat each of his smiles like it is the last he will ever give him? The thought of Steve’s arms around him has somehow grown from reassuring to something more frightening over the past hours Tony has lain awake, even while he is still safely alone on Clint and Natasha’s couch. Steve is still too close, too eager to settle back into Tony’s very being, and Tony, in turn, is far too willing to let him.

If they really try this again, get back together, knowing now what they do of each other, there is no going back from that. If Steve decides to leave then, it will truly be because of Tony, no third parties involved, no extenuating circumstances. There is only one way he can imagine that turning out.

Tony does not feel so sure about taking Steve back anymore. Nights have the habit of blurring the edges of problems until he cannot see them clearly enough anymore to avoid crashing into them. He has been trained to lie while keeping eye contact, that is not so hard, but committing to something inside his heart is another matter altogether.

He needs to find out what he truly wants, and how to get out of this mostly intact, if not happy, although happiness has always seemed a little bit too far out of reach. The easy answer, surely, is Steve. Steve without the unwavering loyalty and the penchant for distrust for anyone outside this small group of people who have proven themselves to him. Truth be told, Tony would take him with all of that, if only he could trust him to be serious about him. Trust, or so he has been told, is a weakness, but he has found it far more crippling to constantly doubt the intentions of everyone around him.

Overcome with the need to breathe freely, Tony disentangles himself from his blanket, the same one Natasha has once tucked him in with, only it feels heavier now, weighed down by all their expectations rooting him in place. Maybe that is more telling than any conscious thought he has had lately. No matter how much he missed Steve and this place, it all feels suffocating now. His mind is obviously not as made up about their situation as he has thought.

Standing in the dark room, the weight does not lift from his sternum. He does not calm down as much as he hoped. There have been dozens of moments like this before, relationships he did not want to acknowledge going south, situations where he bends and bends himself, not caring whether he will reach the point where he will break, because that is what life is, right? An endless chain of compromises. It is only natural that someone like him, weak-willed and half-crazy and hopelessly out of his depths with all things not involving electricity and code, would have to make more compromises than others.

Tony always falls into the trap of thinking things will be different this time. The way Steve had looked at him in the beginning was so promising, too good to be true, and now that they have both revealed what lies beneath their skin, it is hard to cover up the cracks again. Although, if Steve is to be believed, he does not want to do that, but prefers to take their very essences and see if they can fit that way too. For someone so used to hiding behind masks as Tony is, the mere idea is horrifying.

Maybe, he thinks with sudden clarity, it was wrong to wait for Steve to come back to him, for something that will shatter as easily as everything that came before. Maybe he should stop trying so damned hard and make the decision to do what is best for both of them without letting the dawn bring new uncertainty and new waves of longing steadily pulling down his defences.

The first step is the hardest to take, but after that, Tony cannot stop moving. It takes no time at all to gather his things, since he has not bothered to unpack more than necessities after coming back here. Despite his lurking hopes otherwise, this was only ever supposed to be a short visit.

Tony is strangely glad that this is not unnecessarily drawn out. He could have left everything behind, of course, everything in there is expendable, but he thinks that would seem like he had left in a hurry. While he is not at all sure this is the right thing to do, he _has_ thought it mostly through, has already felt the cutting ache of separation for the past months and the still more painful whispers of _what if_ while having Steve so very close the day before. It would not be fair to leave his things as if he has simply stepped out of the room for the moment, when he is actually sure that it will be better for both of them to finally put an end to this sorrowful dance of theirs, before they get hurt again.

At the door, Tony looks back at the room, eyes falling on the same picture Steve had been focusing on during their discussion. With nothing but the dim light of a street light, it has an almost surreal energy to it, calling him close. Steve is laughing widely, his face is open and his eyes are not directed at the camera but at his friends, proof almost that they will always be the most important thing to him.

Tony tries to burn Steve into his memory like that, peaceful, happy. No matter what, he cannot forget all the ways Steve has looked at him right before he left, disgusted and angry and apathetic, never kind. His muscles seemed to move into a sneer far easier than they ever built a smile, although that might be just because it was Tony all of that was directed at. It would not be a lie to say that people usually react negatively to him if he does not take care to charm them or if they talk science together.

Sighing to himself, Tony wonders whether the churning of his stomach means he is making the best or worst possible decision. It will certainly be kinder to leave now, after they have mostly made up and are not completely caught up anymore in their respective anger and grief. Even more so, it makes no sense to start down the same old path again, make the same mistakes, regret the same things.

Unable to go just yet, Tony thinks back on how good life was for a while and how good things never last. His legs growing weak, he sits back down on the couch, careful to not touch his neatly folded blanket, and pulls his bag close as to not forget the reason why he is even up at this time of night.

Staring into the comforting darkness, Tony wishes for a family he can trust, more than ever before. If he asked his friends what to do, he knows what they would say. Rhodey and Pepper would tell him to go if he cannot shake his doubts – that is what they have been advising him for years. _Don’t let other people’s wishes tear you down_. Steve’s friends, on the other hand, have been very vocal about wanting him to stay. Even Natasha, who had promised to get him out if he wanted to, still insists that this is a good thing.

Tony is torn. He just wants someone to talk to, to make sense of the jumbled thoughts warring inside his head. He wants, he suddenly realizes, Jarvis, who had always managed to make the world seem less bleak, who had found explanations for his parents’ absence without damaging their relationship even further, who had been a safe constant throughout all of his life.

It is still the middle of the night, but Tony does not hesitate to pull out his phone and call home. He doubts anyone will pick up, but he needs to do something, and the ringing in his ear is soothing in a way, although he knows what his father would say to him showing weakness like that. Who calls their family’s butler while having a crisis? If someone calls back in the morning, he can always pretend it was a work-related matter that had him trying to disturb them at night. His mind will have cleared enough by then to come up with a suitable excuse. And he will have already made his decision by then.

Lost in his thoughts, Tony misses the familiar click announcing that the call has connected. Without warning, his father’s booming voice fills the silence, causing his heart to stumble in sudden panic.

“I guess your golden boy didn’t want you back,” Howard says in the long-suffering kind of tone that comes with having had to deal with Tony’s antics for years. “Do you need someone to pick you up?”

Of course, he would think Tony is on his way home, running away once again. That is what he always does, after all. It does not even occur to him to ask how Howard knows where Tony is. Somehow he always does.

Tony does not know what to do, is not sure what he can say. The honest answer would be _yes_ , because he is about to leave Steve and his new-found friends, and the only place he can go is home, be that his penthouse or the mansion or even his house in Malibu. Anywhere that is not here. He does not want to give Howard the satisfaction of having won, however, even though Tony feels so far removed from their argument about his love life, it hardly bothers him anymore, considering all the other things that happened in the meantime.

“Boy,” Howard drawls, every shade of unpleasantness rolled into his voice, “Are you there?”

A bout of sharp laughter bursts from Tony’s lips, that has him clamping his mouth shut immediately, peering nervously into the dark. The last thing he wants is to wake up Clint or Natasha, preferring to skirt the wagonload of questions they would have if they found him on the verge of leaving in the middle of the night.

“I wasn’t expecting you to pick up, Dad,” Tony says, matching his tone, “aren’t you usually passed out drunk at this time?”

He wonders why they fall into the same pattern every time they talk. Despite having called to be comforted, they will now throw the same old insults at each other, waiting with bated breath who will be the first to draw blood. Although that truly does not matter, because at the end of it, both of them will be bleeding.

As if in answer to Tony’s challenge, the familiar sound of a bottle being opened and liquid sloshing in a glass reaches his ears, but he does not actually hear Howard drink, even though he is listening closely for the slight hitch in his breath that accompanies alcohol running down his throat, the familiar, mostly inaudible sigh that is a curious mixture of content and disgust. Howard is not drunk, which is as unusual as it gets. No matter if he has already been to bed, he cannot be sober again already, and if he stayed up all night, there is no way he did not spend the lonely, dark hours without clutching a glass close that he never lets stay empty for too long.

Tony does not know how to handle his father when he is sober, simply because he does not have much experience with it. Then again, they do not get along no matter what state either of them is in.

In the hopes of cutting this short, he adds quickly, “Is anyone else still awake?” The quickest way to get rid of his father, is to get him shouting until he cannot stand the sight of him anymore, but Tony would prefer to skip their usual routine.

“Jarvis has taken the week off.” Howard does not need to be told whom he is really asking for, so he does not mention his mother at all. The thought pains Tony, because he would love to have the kind of mother he could talk about these things with. “But since we’re already talking –”

Tony winces and cuts him off sharply, “I don’t have time, sorry.” The last thing he needs right now is another lecture, another speech about everything he has done wrong. He has office hours for that.

“You’re calling at two in the morning for someone to hold your hand while you cry your broken little heart out,” Howard sneers, unmoved by the prospect of his son’s problems. “We could have a constructive conversation instead.”

Which, in this context, means that he wants to exploit Tony’s current weakness to needle promises out of him. Up until now, he has respected Tony’s wish to have nothing to do with weapons anymore, but that is not a truce that is likely to last. Howard surely has a dozen projects and contracts he could use Tony’s input on.

“I’m not in the mood –” Tony starts but trails off before Howard actually interrupts him.

“You never are, but you have a responsibility to our company. Now more than ever.” It could be amusing, listening to him worry about Tony’s involvement in the company he never actually wanted Tony to become responsible of. “I understand that you needed some time while you were busy with that boy, but you can’t start moping again now. Not if you don’t want to prove me right by how quickly you are going to run your little Stark Resilient fantasy to the ground.”

Tony cannot help the bitter snort escaping him. He does not think Howard had ever shown the slightest bit of understanding for anything he has done, especially not his search for friends and something more meaningful than influential acquaintances and business partners.

“Do you want me to apologize for not being a heartless bastard like you?” Tony asks, wishing he could pour all his derision into the words, but he finds himself actually curious. He does not think his father has ever been actually happy in his life, so the question is whether he has simply given up on it or whether he always regarded it as a waste of time.

“I want you to stop ruining a good thing,” Howard says in a tone that indicates he expects Tony to know that, but all Tony can think of is that he had to fight him every step of the way.

“Since when do you approve of what I’m doing with my time?” The robotics division and his dabbling with prosthetics have never failed to raise Howard’s ire, and they have never again talked about Tony’s plans for Stark Resilient. This must be the first time he did not call it an utter waste of time. Tony is not foolish enough to think that this means Howard approves of him too, but it is still more than he ever got from him.

It comes as no surprise that Howard ignores Tony’s question. “I didn’t think you’d be so petty to hold onto your anger over the article to the point where you don’t even come to your godfather’s funeral,” he says with a strange tone underlying the words, but Tony does not pick up on that because all he can hear for a moment is the blood rushing in his ears.

Obie. This is another topic they have not talked about. Even with months between him and the betrayal and subsequent loss, the pain has not faded. The most important thing now is to keep sounding casual. Tony still has no interest in letting his father find out what has truly been happening with Obadiah and Stark Industries. For once, he is very glad for having been raised by two experienced liars.

“It’s not like I would have had any good thoughts to send with him to the grave,” Tony scoffs, wishing for the hundredth time that Obadiah had only conspired with his father. With time, he could have forgiven that. This way, though, whole parts of his childhood, and the company he is to inherit, are ruined forever.

“I thought you’d put family over character,” Howard says, aiming the words like blows.

Tony tightens his grip around his phone, and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Oh, like you do?” It takes effort to keep his voice low.

“If you’re talking about yourself,” Howard counters immediately, still knowing Tony far better than he wants him to, “what makes you think that you have anything to offer to make it worth the trouble?”

Every minute spent talking with his father lessen Tony’s desire leave Clint and Natasha’s apartment. Things here are still a catastrophe waiting to happen, he is sure, but he has equally little desire to deal with the drama waiting at home, and the loneliness that comes with running.

“I must be good for something or you wouldn’t always want me back so badly,” he bites out between clenched teeth, wishing Howard would just once admit that Tony is not just a nuisance to him.

As always, though, Howard is eager to disappoint him. “I’ve invested quite a lot of time and money in you, boy,” he says, casually cruel, “it’s only right to want something to come of that.”

“Would it kill you to use my goddamned name for once?” As soon as the words are over his lips, Tony recoils from his own anger. Again, he thinks he must have been too loud, but it is just the echo of his daring sounding inside him, deafening in how quickly it dies.

“Why so upset, _Anthony_ ,” Howard drawls, and that is worse than if he had simply ignored him. Then, somehow, his voice softens. “Did you really think your golden boy loved you? I thought you knew better by now than to get your heart broken this easily.”

Tony called home to get comforted, not to get his defeat thrown back at him like this, no matter that his father sounds almost gentle. Pulling his knees up to his chest, Tony makes himself small, as if that would make it harder for the truth to hit.

“Steve is a good person,” he says, both because he still thinks it is true, and because there is nothing else he can say. He has obviously learned nothing from all the years and failed attempts at friendship before.

“And you’re not. Simple as that.”

In a horrible sort of way, that helps. Jarvis would have clicked his tongue, Pepper would have had a lecture prepared, Rhodey would have railed against his crippled sense of self-worth. All of them would have told him he is not, in any way, a bad person. Tony knows he is not morally bad, but he is selfish and greedy and clings to people for the slightest bit of kindness. There will never be _enough_ where he is involved.

He is at a loss for words, which Howard seems to take as agreement, because he adds, “People like us don’t love.”

That is where he is wrong. “I did,” Tony says, then winces and corrects himself, “I do.”

He thinks he understands what Howard is trying to say. They do not love in any healthy way, not without breaking themselves on the off chance that they will fit. Tony falls all the time for people and mere ideas, for dreams, and gives it his everything, always withdrawing too late when there is nothing coming back.

His parents love each other, too, in their own way, but Maria is too cold, and Howard is too desperate to keep things under control, although that never works with feelings. Despite the picture they want to project for the outside world, Tony does not think they would have stayed together if there truly was nothing between them. No matter how undesirable that life seems at first, he has always found it soothing, as a sort of proof that there is someone for everyone, including him.

“I think, with a little bit more time, I could have become the kind of person he would not have fallen out of love with.”

They were happy during the weeks they did not let the outside world interfere with them. Tony has never liked the chaos of charity events and press conferences, so it would not have been hard to give that up. The real problem, he knows, lies elsewhere of course, but it would have been a start.

“And then what?” Howard asks, tone sharp but not condemning. “You give yourself up on the merest hunch that he’d keep wanting you? And once he leaves anyway, you’ll blame it on not having changed enough for him, even while you’ve changed too much.” After a moment of hesitation, he adds, “If someone expects you to rearrange your entire self for them, they’re not right for you.”

Tony wishes he could laugh, wants to tip his head back and let out the cacophony ringing inside him. Listening to himself having a serious discussion about love with his father of all people must be the most surreal thing that has ever happened to him. It is hard to pinpoint when they even stopped insulting each other and slipped into a more sombre mood. It is not even that farfetched, though. Despite pretending otherwise, Tony and his father are rather more similar than either of them would ever care to admit.

“It’s you who’s always telling me to be better,” Tony says, not just to be contrary, but because he is genuinely interested in what excuse Howard will come up with, since Tony has always vied for his love too. Although, of course, Howard does not necessarily want him to be a better person, just a better Stark.

“You need to grow a backbone, Tony,” Howard counters immediately, but without the bite that would usually accompany the words, “commit to who you are.”

“Like you did,” Tony says, sounding more sceptical than he had planned. The truth is, he would rather keep breaking himself than end up like his father. He has tasted enough bitterness for a lifetime.

“Not exactly.” Howard trails off, but Tony barely notices, too thrown by the uncertainty in his tone. The clinking of glass is audible in the background again, but as far as he can tell, Howard is still not drinking. “I’m not always particularly proud of who I turned out to be. You need to figure out what you want before it’s too late to change.”

Letting his head rest against the back of the couch, Tony stares at the dark ceiling, searching for anything to say. Howard always seemed like the kind of person who had figured life out, who got where he wanted to be and clung to that place no matter what happened. Never before has Tony heard him doubting himself. This could be his chance to clear the air between them, to ask the dozens of questions he has been carrying around with him since the first time he realized he is not what his father had hoped for when getting a child.

“And here I thought it’s never supposed to be too late,” he quips instead, deciding that some question are better off not answered. Just because they are not spewing poison at each other for the moment, does not mean it is not simmering beneath the surface.

“That’s what only fools will tell you,” Howard growls, then continues in a softer tone, “you can’t run from certain decisions you’ve made.”

Still somehow optimistic, Tony argues, “But you can choose to make up for them.”

At that, Howard laughs. It is no doubt genuine, for it has the kind of sharp edges that he would usually try to hide. “The world seldom offers us that luxury.”

Their whole conversation has a sense of surrealism to it. At first glance, this might seem utterly out of character for his father, who usually feels more secure in the role of the raging drunk, the scheming businessman, or the perpetually disappointed father, and Tony is sure, come morning, they will be back to shouting at each other and trying to make the other’s life harder. But this, right now, feels strangely easy to settle into, like their respective grudges are momentarily put on hold. If things had played out a little differently, Tony thinks they could have been this to each other, this strangely introspective pair, effortlessly close because they are simply not that different. Instead of waging their senseless war, they could have conquered the world together.

A silence engulfs them that Tony does not know how to break, does not want to really. He would like to bottle their truce and keep it as a reminder that things do not always have to be a battle. Then he hears Howard finally take that drink he has been toying with the whole time, and almost physically feels the peace slipping away.

“Were you ever going to tell me about Obadiah’s backhanded dealing?” Howard asks suddenly, causing Tony’s back to jerk to a painfully straight position, clutching his free arm around his knees.

“How’d you find out?” Tony blurts while his mind is still scrambling to catch up. He does not know whether that was Howard’s plan all along, to lure him into a state of perceived safety, but he has certainly managed to bring Tony’s defences down.

“I have my ways and I never believed in coincidences,” Howard says dismissively. “And that wasn’t an answer.”

Resting his forehead on his knees, Tony sighs. They have been strangely truthful all night, so he does not have the energy to start lying now. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to hurt you?”

Howard is silent for a long moment, but it feels like he is straining to keep his breathing even. “He was your family too,” he then says, his tone genuine.

“Yes.” Tony hesitates, not yet ready to dive into the pit of dealing with the grief they must share up to some point. “But you’re the one weirdly into patriotism,” he adds mindlessly, immediately biting his tongue afterwards. It is never a good idea to questions someone’s ideals.

Thankfully, Howard seems as glad to skirt this topic for now as Tony is, for he gladly accepts this new direction to their conversation. “We all need something to believe in. And to put faith in one’s country is to believe in the future.”

He still sounds like he is telling the truth, but this reminder of reality has brought Tony’s mind back to full alertness. “Strange,” he says, unable to help the heavy sarcasm, “I thought that saying was about children, not about good old America.”

“Do you think I don’t believe in you?” Howard asks quietly, causing Tony to scoff. He does not believe in himself most of the time, so why would he think anyone else does, especially someone who goes out of his way to indicate he does not every time they meet?

“You’ve never given any indication that you do.” Tony wishes he could sound more accusing, but this is a battle he has been losing all his life, and he is simply tired of it.

“And look how you’ve turned out nonetheless.”

This time, Tony does not hold back his laughter, although he muffles it against his hand. It might be his imagination, but this might just be the closest his father has ever come to saying that he is proud of him. Tony can picture him easily inside his mind, how stiffly he must sit in his big leather armchair in his office, whiskey in hand, and his face closed-off, like he is afraid that if he lets the slightest bit of emotion out, he will never get it back.

“I’m a mess,” Tony says. It is easy to confess to his father, even though his opinion of Tony might not be as bad as he has thought.

“Oh, boy,” Howard sighs. For once, the moniker does not sound degrading but almost fond. “Everyone’s a mess. The question is just whether you’ll let that define you or grow beyond it.”

Very quietly, Tony asks, “Have you?” He is afraid of the answer and of what it means for him.

It is not reassuring to hear his father chuckle, half-bitter and half-amused. “I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

Tony knows he will not, because this strange mood of his has to be a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Tomorrow, maybe only an hour from now, Howard will be back to nursing drinks and grudges, keeping his thoughts and feelings close to his own chest, and Tony will return to trying to find his place in this world, both of them a little bit too desperate and too certain they deserve to stay right where they are. He is glad, though, to have caught this glimpse of his father and of what he himself is in his eyes.

“Thanks, Dad,” he says and means it. Reluctantly, he adds, “I’ll be home soon.”

“No,” Howard surprises him with the strength behind the word. “You’ve never stopped trusting in people, no matter how often you’ve been disappointed, so maybe you shouldn’t. Go where you _make_ your home.”

He falls abruptly silent, maybe already cursing himself for effectively giving Tony a carte blanche. Tony, in turn, wonders how to take his words. Howard could mean Steve, or any of his innumerable dreams he has dismissed so easily over the years. After all the trouble he has caused for Tony with that article and his constant meddling, Tony should resent him for this. Curiously enough, he does not.

Instead, Tony looks at the bag he has packed and the dark living room around him, which has become so familiar in such a short time. He thinks of third chances, and of old scars he regularly rips open because he always falls into the same trap of allowing people close. It hurts every time he is left behind, but he does not know how else he is going to find someone who will stay but by trying again.

Running now might be the easiest path to take, since he is already heartbroken and he has gotten over that before. More importantly, however, he still cannot shake the feeling that, with endless patience and work, he will find that staying might just be worth all the trouble.

For a moment, it appears he has just made a step back, retracted his decision and is back to the painful limbo of not knowing what he will do. The whole day has been full of that. In the end, though, his father might be right. Tony cannot run from who he is, and maybe he should not.

“Good night, Dad,” Tony says, wondering whether he is even still there, waiting for how his emotional crisis will turn out.

Then Howard hums, as if he knows what Tony has decided, and does not necessarily disapprove. “Good night, Tony.”

Tony puts his phone down on his back, and leaves both of it in plain view right next to the entrance door. It would be easy to hide the proof of his doubts that came knocking in the middle of the night, but he thinks it is a statement he has to make. Let them see how close he has come to leaving – and rightly so after Steve threw him away only to magnanimously decide to take him back – but chose to stay. Perhaps Steve will see it when he comes for the second part of their conversation, and understand it for what it is – a reminder that this is his last strike, their last chance.

For now, though, Tony returns to his makeshift bed in Clint and Natasha’s living room and climbs back under the cover.

Tony is sure his father will regret their conversation later on, but for now, he takes his words at face value. It is time to stop waiting for home to just fall into place before him when he can just as well make it herself. He is, after all, good at building things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? Howard might be a bit OOC, but this chapter is pure self.indulgence, because I didn't want them to stay such a bitter pair. I don't think this necessarily changes their relationship, but it will change Tony's view of his father. And that, sometimes makes all the difference, yes?
> 
> Please let me know what you think. All the best to you :-)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your comments and kudos! This one's rather short, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

When Steve wakes up in the morning, he feels lonely. It is not even that he expected Tony to fall right back into his arms, but he is terribly afraid of letting his chances run through his fingers again.

As he gets out of bed, he distinctly remembers dreaming about Tony leaving. The prospect weighs heavily on him, turning his movements sluggish, but it slowly fades as he concentrates on the way Tony had promised him they would see each other again today. Tony would not lie about that; only perhaps if he truly believed they have no future, and Steve cannot afford to think like that.

Once he invites paranoia in, however, it is hard to let go of it again. Scrambling for his phone, Steve is calling Tony before he can think better of it. He needs some certainty. Also Tony had not explicitly said that he did not want to see or hear from Steve before their gathering in the evening. If anything, they should try to clear up things between them before that or it would be an awkward evening for everyone involved.

Tony does not answer. The phone rings and rings until the mailbox comes on. Tony’s voice, half-professional, half-amused. Steve hangs up without saying anything, and stands frozen for a short moment. Then he is moving, throwing on clothes haphazardly and almost forgetting to put on shoes in his haste.

“What are you doing?” Bucky appears right as Steve opens the door to leave. He looks suspicious but tired, and Steve knows he cannot let him begin to talk because he will have a dozen reasons ready why Steve should not leave right now. He has been doing for months what his friends have been telling him, however, and while he is sure that their advice was sound, it is time that he took control of his own life again.

“I need to make something right,” Steve says. A grin steals onto his lips that must look as maniacal as it feels.

He does not wait for an answer but hurries right out into the hallway and down the stairs. He has no illusions that Bucky will not warn Clint and Natasha, and therefore Tony, about his coming, but he does not mind.

Out of breath, he reaches the familiar house and stumbles over a bag as he enters Clint and Natasha’s flat. He is momentarily irritated at something daring to appear in his way, but he stops cold as soon as he recognizes it. It is the same one Tony had with him while he stayed at Steve’s home, it even bears a small, golden clip with Tony’s initials carved into it. That it stands fully packed by the door implicates a lot of ugly things Steve does not want to think about. He has lost, then, lost his third chance before they could even give it a go.

Tony’s phone lies on top of it, showing one missed call from Steve, and looking right out of place with its owner nowhere in sight. As technophile as Tony is, he never leaves his phone out of reach for long.

All of that has Steve coming to an abrupt halt in the hallway, mind turning into overdrive as he is trying to make sense of what he sees. At some point between their goodbye last night and now, Tony must have decided to leave. He had packed his things and left his phone, either because he did not want to be put into a position where Steve could contact and stop him, or because he is already more gone than still here, ready to step out, take his things and never look back.

That is the moment he hears laughter from the kitchen. Tony’s voice is clear amongst them. It sounds honest, not rushed or tinged by farewells. While Steve stands rooted in place, his heart beginning to race and his hands sweating, he tries to calm himself by listening to the familiar sound, coming from only a few feet away. If he goes forward right now, he will be able to see Tony, still very much present, not running but laughing. No matter what thoughts the darkness had put into Tony’s head, no matter whether he had already had the doorknob in hand, he is still here, not yet out of reach.

Steve does not want new doubts put into his head and takes a long moment to decide that he will trust Tony. He has made a promise that he will not hold Tony back if he wants to leave, so Steve will stick to that, even if it seems harder than ever before.

The short hallway appears to have grown indefinitely as Steve directs his heavy feet to tackle the unbearable distance. On the way there, he tries to calm his frayed nerves and trembling hands, but he wonders whether Tony would mind seeing how worked up he is, whether that is not a promise all of its own.

When he enters the kitchen, they are all there, Clint and Natasha and most of all Tony. The genius is still wearing his pyjamas, and altogether does not look like he is in the process of leaving. When he looks up and finds Steve standing in the door, his eyes light up, still somewhat wary, but mostly relieved. It is not like Tony to leave his bag in plain sight by accident, so it has to be as much of a message as his undeniable presence is right now.

“Steve,” Tony greets, even while the blonde is still speechless. Something odd swings along his name, but it does not sound like a rejection.

“We weren’t sure you’d make it here,” Clint adds cheekily, a hint of warning in his tone, “Bucky wrote you ran off utterly headless.”

Natasha simply stares at him, assesses him like she does an opponent in the gym – or, before that, on a battlefield. She seems satisfied with what she finds, though, because she nods almost imperceptibly.

“I needed to –” Steve begins and trails off, unsure how to speak his mind while it is still reeling.

“You need coffee.” That works like a pre-arranged code word, because Natasha turns towards the coffee machine with a last imploring glance at him, while Clint gets a new mug out of the cupboard. Tony himself remains where he is, but he leans farther back in his seat, pulling his own drink closer as if to give his hands something to do.

Steve’s brain is still caught in a haze, because the next time he looks up, Natasha and Clint file out of the kitchen, parting with a pat on his back, which could be a wish for luck as well as an expression of their condolences. Then, unbelievably, he is alone with Tony, who eyes him searchingly.

Neither of them seems willing to take the first step, but then Tony takes pity on him. “I’m here,” he says firmly, leaving a whole barrage of things unsaid, but they hang nearly tangible between them nonetheless.

Tony’s knee is bouncing, announcing that he had been ready to leave, one step in front of the other out of Steve’s live. The nervous tension in his shoulders shows that he is still afraid of Steve’s reaction, even though he does not regret his decision, neither the leaving nor the coming back. Finally, his face, from the tentative honesty of his smile to the warm brown of his eyes, tells Steve that he is here to stay.

Steve’s mind cycles through incomprehension and fear and panic, until it finally settles on understanding. They both needed to assert some control over this relationship. For him it was getting to terms with their life never being as private as he might like and his hold on his own fears being not as strong as he would life, and then going back to Tony.

Last night, Tony has made his decision. It was neither easy nor painless, but it was one that needed to be made. Now he knows that he is staying because it was his choice, not because he let Steve settle for him.

“Thank you,” Steve says. He is feeling almost calm inside now. Even without having had the conversation he has been dreading, they have made their positions clear already. With a sigh, he walks forward and slips into a seat across from Tony. It feels safer to have the table between them, because they do need to talk and otherwise the need to reach out might become overwhelming.

This is it. They are on the last strike. It is now or never.

 

* * *

 

Here they are again, sitting like grim diplomats across from each other, afraid to get closer to each other while also trying not to let that distance grow. Even with their decisions having been made, quietly and unanimously, this does not mean they are good. They still have some walls to bring down between them.

Taking a strengthening sip of his coffee, Tony feels obligated to point out, “Most people don’t get a second chance, much less a third one.”

This feels like as good a conversation starter as any, and it elicits a smile from Steve, a real one. It is a bit sad, perhaps, but not this bitter, self-deprecating thing that Tony hates, and not just because it looks so familiar.

“We’re not most people,” Steve says, making it sound like that is a good thing. “And I’m willing to do this, properly this time.”

They slip into this like they have never stopped talking the night before. It is still different, though, because they are no longer stuck on being on opposing sides.

Fixing Steve with a searching gaze, Tony snorts quietly. “Properly?” he asks, because he liked what they had before this latest disaster, and he has never been any good at doing things the way they are supposed to be done. He is not sure he can do _proper_. Although he already feels his resolve crumbling, just because of the way Steve looks at him. Thinking in terms of a team again feels too quick, but he wanted to deal with this, no matter how.

“No more secrets, not between us. I’m not saying we need to tell each other everything, but the important stuff that has the potential to hurt us,” Steve says easily, like Tony is not made up of lies, like he has not been taught to act even while he was still learning to walk. “Also, we might want to get this out into the open. They can only hurt us if we let them, and if we don’t hide away, we’re already making it all the much harder for them.”

Ignoring the personal aspect of this for a moment, now is actually not a bad time for such a manoeuvre. The original article has long since faded from everybody’s minds and Pepper has done her magic and made sure that it was followed up by several other ones to soften the blow and reform the public opinion of Captain Rogers and his friends. The journalist who badmouthed them has vanished, never to be heard of again, and Tony is not sure whether that was Natasha’s or Pepper’s doing. He did not ask, either. Both of them are terrifying in their own way, and he is just glad that they appear to be on his side.

Tony himself has made more positive press than ever before, courtesy of Stark Resilient and keeping himself busy enough to not fall into familiar destructive behaviour patterns.

As to not keeping secrets from each other, allowing Steve to see him as he is – that might just be the hardest thing he has ever done. With Pepper and Rhodey it simply happened over time when they refused to leave, even though he kept expecting them to. Making this step actively is as terrifying as it is the vaguest bit tempting. He would do anything to finally exchange this limbo of feelings for facts.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Tony argues nonetheless.

“No, but I’ll learn,” Steve agrees, like he is prepared for that. He frowns a bit when he continues, caught somewhere between pleading and bitter. “Just like you’ll learn that sometimes PTSD comes knocking and tears down all the progress I’ve made, until I remember that I’m safe.”

What he says is that he is aware that this could happen again, one or both of them overreacting and turning to run. They will need patience if they want to make this work, and strong nerves. They need to be sure this is the right way to go.

“You want us to build a safe place together,” Tony says, because they will also have to learn to trust each other.

Steve, in turn, nods. “Only if you’re still up for it.” He turns his whole body towards Tony, not in an attempt to pressure him into an answer, but as an offer, almost a promise.

Tony takes his time. It is not so much reluctance as that he has to weigh last night’s decision to this morning’s reality. Steve is here, right in front of him and has never looked at him more earnestly than this. Beneath the cheer of a new day, they are both exhausted, red-eyed and weary, flayed open. If Tony allows himself to think of it, everything still hurts, but he wants this more than anything. This is what he has been hoping for, them giving each other another chance. They have to make a first step somewhere. Yes, Steve hurt him, distrusted him, ran away, and Tony let all of that happen because he is used to it, because some part of him will never stop waiting for that. People always leave, he just does not know what to make of Steve coming back, full of righteous certainty that they can do better this time. But Howard is right in saying Tony is better than choosing to run away, and Rhodey is right in saying that Tony deserves more than bending under other people’s will. If they want something, they will have to create it.

“Yes,” Tony says and uncurls his hands from around his mug to finally reach for Steve, who meets him halfway. Their hands feel familiar in each other if not completely right yet, and the sensation almost overwhelms him. “Yes.”

What Tony wants most is to stop hurting. Steve has managed to make him feel whole once before, even if he then went and tore him apart. He stares down at their linked hands, reminds himself once again that he is a builder. When a machine does not work, he takes it apart and puts it back together until it is fixed, until it runs as intended. Humans are not like that, but they, too, sometimes need another try or two.

It is a risk, but Tony has never been known for playing it safe, so he looks up and smiles at Steve, almost certain he is doing the right thing.

“I love you,” Steve says, looking first at their intertwined fingers, then at Tony, the intensity in his gaze almost burning.

It is easy, then, to laugh, free from the sudden worry dropped back on his shoulders. Here they are, making a regular job out of turning disasters into miracles.

Without hesitation, Tony answers in kind. “I love you too.”

They have still a long way to go to feel secure again, to think of themselves as a unit instead of two men staggering helplessly towards a common goal, but this is their first step, and they took it together.

They have no time to revel in that feeling, however, nor to try and find out whether to keep their distance for now or pull each other closer, for they are rudely interrupted.

“Finally,” Clint says from the doorway, causing both of them to flinch and look up in alarm. He grins widely as if the world has finally righted itself, not at all ashamed about having eavesdropped, not that anyone would have believed him anyway. “I half-feared we’d have to listen to you dancing around each other all day.”

Natasha stands next to him, arms crossed in front of her, wearing a rather smug expression. “You owe me ten bucks,” she then says and turns to the coffee pot as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Tony and Steve look at each other, both feeling lost but, at the same time, like they are exactly where they are supposed to be. Something warm has chased off most of the churning emotions in the pit of Tony’s stomach, and no matter how often his hopes have been crushed before, he feels almost excited. At least he is not as ready anymore to give up on this world altogether.

“Wait,” he then says, eyes snapping up to glare at Clint. “You bet against us?”

Raising his arms in front of him, Clint cannot quite hide his relieved laughter. “Only because Bucky was quicker to second Nat’s claim, and then she glared me into submission,” he defends himself. “It’s apparently only fun when Nat wins.”

Nodding gravely, Steve says, “Naturally.”

Neither of them makes a move to bridge the distance between them, so their intertwined hands remain their only contact. For now, that has to be enough.

“Hush, boys,” Nat calls from the side. “I always win. And these two idiots are meant to be, even if we have to keep telling them a hundred times more.”

Almost shyly, Tony glances at Steve, and feels comically reassured when Steve squeezes his hand in return.

“I very much hope she is right,” he whispers as he pulls Tony just the tiniest bit closer, “because I’m tired of losing who I love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, friends. Next up, the epilogue. I hope I managed to bring them back together in an acceptable way.  
> Prepare for fluff.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, friends! The epilogue, which is the sappiest thing I've ever written, nothing but happiness going around here.  
> Thank you all for your support, your comments and kudos, for reading this little monster of mine. This was supposed to be three chapters, 15k tops, and now look what has become of it. This - and thereby you - pulled me through some bad times this year. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Natasha is right, as usual. Exactly three years after their fateful meeting in that club in Vegas, Tony invites all of their friends to dinner and, to collective cheering, gets down on a knee in front of Steve. The ring is expensive but intricately enough designed that Steve accepts it with a smile instead of scolding.

Bucky and Rhodey shake hands afterwards, congratulating themselves on their brilliantly executed rescue mission, while Natasha and Pepper are already putting their heads together, planning the wedding. Clint, meanwhile, is too occupied with flirting with Laura, to yell, “I told you so,” at anyone willing to listen. Jarvis, meanwhile, does not bother to hide his wide, content smile. His almost-son is marrying, so how could he be happier?

The wedding itself is a spectacular affair, expertly courting the line between lavish and simple beauty. It is not as grand as it would befit a Stark but it is right for the both of them. The grooms look splendid, wearing smiles that have never been brighter, although the photographer has a hard time capturing them because the two men can barely keep their hands – and lips – off each other.

As promised years ago, Rhodey will stand right beside Tony at the altar, not even trying to hide his pride. “This is my stupid kid brother who wouldn’t have survived MIT without me,” he tells everyone whether or not they are willing to listen, just to see Tony’s face soften each time he claims him as family.

Rhodey is satisfied, of course, that it is Steve he is handing Tony over to – and that neither of them is drunk, as Tony has suggested _for old time’s sake_. Well, the only thing they are drunk on is happiness, more of it than Rhodey has ever dared hope for where Tony is concerned. He is glad to have been proven wrong.

Howard, naturally, does not show up, but no one is actually surprised or disappointed by that. He _has_ deigned to give an official comment to the press, accompanied by a picture of him and Steve shaking hands. It was staged and did not feel quite right, but that is as much of a blessing as they can hope to get, and it is more than enough for either of them. The family that matters approves of them, so what else could they wish for.

What is surprising, however, is that Maria climbs out of the car with Jarvis, showing a smile devoid of her usual detachedness. She embraces both grooms briefly before disappearing in direction of the bar, leaving a nonplussed Tony behind who can only stare after her before turning a puzzled look to Jarvis.

“She insisted,” the butler simply says before drawing Tony into an embrace of his own, openly filling the role as father figure without hesitation. He will likely spend the entire ceremony crying next to Mrs. Barnes who, in turn, has always thought of Steve as her son.

“This is a good thing,” Steve tells Tony when he keeps sneaking glances at the bar, where Maria watches the proceedings almost benevolently, like she has had a hand in them happening.

For a brief moment it looks like Tony is going to argue, but then he leans against Steve’s side and shrugs. “Everything about today is good.”

“ _You_ are good,” Steve shoots back without thinking, his smile turning goofy. He is still regularly overwhelmed with never wanting to let go of Tony and the need to pinch himself to make sure he is not dreaming.

Tony reaches up to trail the curve of Steve’s lips, eyes shining. “You, my dear, are the most beautiful person I have ever met.”

There is so much honesty in Tony’s voice, meaning not only Steve’s admittedly impressive physical attributes but the whole package, that Steve’s throat constricts and he has to take a deep breath. He cannot start crying before they have even exchanged their vows.

“Don’t let Pepper hear that,” he chokes out, trying to steer the conversation away from becoming too emotional while they still have to go out and function like adults instead of getting lost within each other.

Thankfully, Tony knows exactly what he is doing, and gives in with nothing more than a small grin. “If you ever tell her, I’m going to dump you. You coerced me anyway, coming on to me so strong in that club.”

Chuckling, Steve relaxes into Tony’s arms. “I’m sure everyone agrees I deserve the credit for this wedding even happening. Also,” he adds mischievously, “Rhodey will murder you if you back out now.”

As if on command, they turn to look at where Rhodey stands in a loose circle with Steve’s friends, no doubt commiserating on how to embarrass their favourite grooms.

“Nonsense,” Tony says fondly, “He won’t have the chance cause Bucky will easily beat him to it with all those neat upgrades in the arm.”

One hilarious evening, Steve had come home only to stumble over Tony bowed over a shirtless Bucky, tinkering with the prosthetic with an almost manic glint in his eyes after having finally been given the permission to improve it. It had become a regular thing and if there had not been enough cyborg jokes before this, they exploded once Tony built in a laser in Bucky’s index finger. Fortunately, it was not of the light sabre kind, but their imagination is strong.

“Will either of you ever shut up about this?” Steve groans, despite them both knowing that he could never be angry about anything that made his best friend somewhat comfortable with the loss of his arm.

Utterly failing at making an innocent face, Tony says, “I know how you can make me.”

“Really? How?” Steve asks, not willing to give in so easy. “I could drown you in the champagne fountain that was totally unnecessary. Or get Jarvis to tell embarrassing childhood stories about you. Or –”

Sighing long-sufferingly, Tony grasps the front of Steve’s suit jacket. “I know I’m the genius here, but it’s not that hard to figure out.” Then he pulls Steve down into another kiss.

“You’re right,” Steve mutters when they part. “This is the better option.”

“I’m always right.” Tony laughs when Steve rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. I like you better when –”

“Nope,” Tony cuts him off, full of cheek. “Don’t say things you’ll regret. I know you like it when I talk in bed.”

There truly is nothing Steve can say to counter that, so he just smiles and captures Tony’s lips once more.

“Let’s dodge the rest of the party and go straight on to the wedding night,” Tony offers, voice dropping low enough that Steve wastes a glance at their surroundings to make sure they are still out of earshot of anyone else.

“I can’t imagine how anyone ever called you a good host,” he says instead of agreeing like a rather big part of him wants.

But the thing is, he wants this party too, wants to be seen by family and friends as he renews his vows to Tony, wants to make this as official as it can get, wants no one to be able to doubt how they stand to each other, least of all themselves.

“Are you complaining about the plan?” Tony asks, but there is a gentleness to his eyes that tells Steve he knows exactly what he is thinking.

“Not at all.” Then, still in wonder, he adds, “The rest of our life together begins today, and I’d rather begin it sooner than later.”

“Technically,” Tony argues, because he can never leave well enough alone, “it began in Vegas.”

“Shush.” Steve leans down to press his forehead against Tony’s. “Just keep kissing me.”

“With pleasure, my love.”

Eventually Pepper and Natasha find them – the two of them are beyond terrifying together – and drag them off so they can get the actual ceremony out of the way before Clint manages to get all of the guests drunk by proposing a toast for the happy couple every other minute.

Any other time, it might have been daunting to walk down the dais – together, of course, because neither wants to wait for the other here when they have finally managed to match their steps – but right then, with their families watching and the reassuring warmth of love curling inside their chest, it is the most natural thing to do.

So Steve and Tony walk together, passing the rows and rows of guests, their hands brushing together until they give up the pretence and simply intertwine them. At their sides are Bucky and Rhodey, both their eyes shining.

They say _I do_ and _Always_ and _I love you_ , and when it is time to finally exchange their rings, Clint drawls dramatically from the front row, “It’s about time.”

No one has the chance to hush him for the break of protocol, because Tony turns to him, grinning. “We wanted to really get to know each other before jumping headfirst into something as serious as marriage.”

At his side, Steve shakes his head fondly, but says, “Exactly. It was a very drawn out decision. Nothing spontaneous about it.”

They are both trembling with silent laughter and then something more as they kiss, not the first kiss as a married couple, not by far, but no less ground-breaking, no less full of promise.

Everyone claps their hands, their friends catcall, Jarvis and Mrs. Barnes cry. It is beautiful and much better than they could have imagined.

For everyone not yet satiated with the love hanging in the air, Pepper has organised dinner, white tablecloths, red rose petals and all. Tony and Steve sit at the front, still having only eyes for each other.

Before they become completely lost to their guests, Bucky shouts, “Speech,” and while Tony looks irritated for a moment at being ripped from the only thing that matters to him tonight, Steve nudges him and he rises with an indulgent smile.

“All right,” he says grandly, taking in all the faces around them. “Thank you all for coming and wishing us the best of luck in navigating this totally new territory of marriage.” He laughs at his own joke as he always will. “I’m sure everyone is hungry, _I’m_ hungry.” His eyes stray towards Steve, making sure it is not the food he is waiting for. “So let’s keep this short.”

He does not take out note cards, although Steve is sure that Pepper had some prepared for him. No, Tony simply puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder and starts talking.

“Let me tell you the heart-warming story of how Stevie here wooed me.”

Bucky whistles even while Steve does his best to fight the urge to hide his face in his hands. He had thought he needed to look out for their friends going to embarrass them, not that Tony would do the same. Although he is not quite sure why he is surprised.

“It was this club in Vegas, a little run down, dim lights, you get the picture. And Steve came up to me, all muscly but not quite steady on his feet anymore, and said _I like the way you dance. The colours all swirl around you. Wanna teach me?_ ”

Now Steve does hide his face, while Clint assures everyone in earshot loudly that this is exactly what has happened. Bucky and Natasha just laugh. Since he cannot shut them out, Steve emerges from behind his hands and rests his cheek on them as he looks up at Tony. His current speech notwithstanding, he still cannot believe his luck in having come to this point.

“The thing is,” Tony continues, eyes never straying from Steve’s, “Steve is a romantic. Which, for a confessed cynic like me, is like another species. Where I see hard lines and equations, he sees living beauty.”

Tony’s hand comes up, running through Steve’s hair and coming to rest on his jaw, thumb only inches from Steve’s lower lip.

“We shouldn’t fit,” he says and the mere thought hurts, but neither of their smiles ever wavers. “And yet. Steve makes me laugh. He gets me to eat and be on time for meetings. He makes me believe that the future is not just something to be planned and built, but something I want to watch evolve and grow slowly in our combined hands.”

Maybe the air has become thin, maybe Steve’s heart has decided that this is the perfect moment to give out, but his pulse races and his eyes burn and the only thought that fills him is _Tony_. He reaches up, covers Tony’s hand with his, and feels like they could stay like this forever and he would die a happy man.

“You see,” Tony goes on after a long minute, voice slightly hoarse, “he’s turned me into a sap. But, honestly, it took us too long to get here, and as long as I end up having this, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Tony lowers himself back to his seat to applause and quite a number of secret tears, and Steve almost does not want to rise and push away the lingering echo of Tony’s words with his own. But they had to promise their friends to each hold a speech and agreed under duress, because the pre-dinner time had to be filled with some organized noise, and they would be happy to think of something, although they could not guarantee that it would not end in disaster. They have had enough disasters already, however, so Steve stands, keeping a hold of Tony’s hand.

“Most people here know I’m not good with words,” Steve begins, interrupting himself when Bucky dissolves into a fake coughing fit while Natasha pats his back, grinning. “But I keep trying and sometimes it works out well. There are, however, things I am much better at.”

Steve falters for a moment, but Tony is there to fill the gap like they had it all planned. “Oh yes,” the genius says in a stage whisper, making sure it carries, “he’s very good with his hands.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but Tony is essentially right,” Steve picks back up, chuckling fondly when Tony sticks out his chin proudly. “That said, I’ve got a present for the wonderful Pepper, who constantly manages to keep Tony in line, soothes my worries, and successfully tackled the task of organizing a wedding for us that would satisfy all involved parties.”

He gestures at the splendour around them and hints at the hours of arguing about colour themes and wedding cakes that had Tony bored and Steve ready to become a hermit until Pepper and Natasha had decided to simply do it all on their own.

Without needing to be prompted, Bucky brings up a package, slim and tall, packed in horrible red and gold paper that was all Tony’s idea. Pepper accepts it with the kind of apprehension that comes from navigating Tony’s workshop for years, never knowing when something is going to explode or from which corner an overeager bot will appear to douse her with sticky foam from the fire extinguisher. With care, she peels back the paper, revealing a painting of Tony, presidential style. His chin is up, his lips curled into an amused smirk, eyes glinting with something between mischief and deep content. It looks so real that no one would have been surprised had the painted Tony commented on all their astonished faces – or Pepper’s wary one.

When she looks up at Steve questioningly, he shrugs apologetically. “I thought, since Tony can’t be bothered to show up at the office most of the time, I’ll get you the next best thing.” Nodding at the painting, he elaborates, “You won’t even notice the difference. You can rant at him and he won’t listen. But this way, at least, he can’t run away.”

People start laughing, right when Steve begins fearing he has just made things weird. He thought it a good idea at the time, especially considering the next little gift he has in mind.

“You should have laminated it,” Tony comments from his side, prompting more laughter, “so she can throw eggs at it more than once.”

When Pepper looks up from the painting, she glares at Tony but her face turns fond when it finds Steve. “I guess this was Tony’s idea.”

Tony immediately raises his one free hand in protest, although he cannot hide the fact that he has known about this. “I do look for any excuse to get my perfect image put on canvas, but I think it is really sad how all of you still underestimate just how devious Steve can be.”

Donning his best innocent face, Steve says sweetly, “All your influence.”

Bucky, he knows without looking, laughs the loudest. Well, he _has_ known Steve as the scrawny kid getting constantly in trouble. Over the years, he has just gotten better at hiding that.

“Anyway,” Steve continues before everything can dissolve into laughter and mayhem. Nervousness builds in his stomach, even though he still has his friends’ voices in his ear, assuring him that it will be fine. “I’ve got a present for Tony too.”

Tony makes a show of looking him up and down before waggling his eyebrows. “Right here?” he asks like the little devil he is. “I hoped you’d come at least with a bow tie. _Just_ a bow tie.”

Three years and Steve has finally learned not to blush at every little innuendo anymore. It has been a tricky road, but, to Tony’s eternal disappointment, he has finally made it there.

“It’s better than that,” Steve responds, then stops because his throat constricts.

“Impossible,” Tony quips but looks at him quite seriously. Which is enough to make Steve realize how stupid he is to be worrying.

Straightening unconsciously, he simply says, “Malibu.”

Tony’s face turns into one of puzzlement. “You – painted Malibu for me?”

Gently, Steve raises their combined hands and presses a kiss on Tony’s knuckles. “We’re going to move to Malibu.” There it is, out in the open, and he quickly continues speaking to avoid a silence falling between them. “I’ve talked it through with Pepper and your father. Stark Resilient is prepared to move its headquarters down there.” Nodding at his friends, he adds, “I’m afraid this riffraff is going to come along, but there will be no more travelling between New York and here. We’ll –”

Steve trails off, waiting for Tony to say something, anything, to stop looking at him like he has done something impossible, something unbelievable.

“You want us to move in together?” Tony asks, voice tentative like he has to taste the words on his tongue, and Steve does not know what to make of it, feeling panic rise.

“I mean, only if you want to. I just thought –” He is cut off by Tony jumping to his feet, face so open he can barely begin to take it in.

“Yes,” Tony breathes, sagging against him like an immeasurable weight has dropped off his shoulders.

“You know,” Bucky drawls from somewhere far away, “this was more enthusiastic than the original marriage proposal.”

“We were drunk,” Tony says dismissively while Steve is still reeling with the burning intensity of his brown eyes on him.

“Or the second one,” Rhodey chimes in, and there Steve can hear some of his own happiness reverberating.

“I’ll have you know that was very romantic, but that doesn’t matter now.” Fixing all of his attention back on Steve, Tony smiles and smiles. “Yes, yes, yes. I told you you’d like it in Malibu, and a big part of Pep’s art collection is there and –”

Steve leans down and smothers Tony’s own panic – the bubbling, happy kind – with a kiss, feeling all their pieces sliding easily into place.

“I’m glad,” he whispers. “I hate being apart from you.”

Tony does not draw back but there is still an edge to his voice when he answers. “Just you wait. Once we’re together all the time, you’ll grow tired of me soon enough.”

While three years have been enough to cure Steve from blushing all the time, it was not enough to drain all of Tony’s self-doubt. But Steve is certain that they will get there, now more than ever. Getting tired of Tony would mean getting tired of love. For a romantic like him that is just impossible.

So when he speaks it is with the confidence of a man who has found his other half.

“Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after?!  
> Well, I was convinced to write a sequel, and I'm working on it. I can't promise when I'll start uploading it, but it's coming - mostly thanks to [Briz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briz/pseuds/Briz).
> 
> Another big thank you! I'd be happy to hear from you. Also, tell me if you've got anything you might want to read about in the sequel (or anything else, really. Christmas is coming up, so I'll have some free time on my hands.)  
> All the best to you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please consider telling me what you think - and wish me luck for my exam. (I just spent four months studying for it, so this had better work out ;-) )  
> All the best!


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